Biggles in the Argentine
by Biggles Mad
Summary: A missing Biggles moment, set directly after Fails to Return, which explains what happened to Jeanette Ducoste, and how Erich von Stalhein got his limp. By Biggles Mad.
1. The Air Commodore sets the scene

**Chapter 1**

**The Air Commodore sets the scene**

When Biggles - Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth, D.S.O., D.F.C., to give him his proper name and rank - when Biggles landed after making a short early morning test flight to check certain adjustments that had been made to his Spitfire, he had nothing on his mind of greater significance than breakfast.

"She's still inclined to fly a bit left wing low," he told the sergeant rigger, as he shed his parachute and walked slowly towards the mess.

He altered his direction abruptly when Toddy, the Station Adjutant, emerged from the door of the squadron office and gestured urgently to him. "Air Commodore Raymond, of Air Intelligence, has been on the phone for you," Toddy told him. "He wants you to go up to the Air Ministry straight away."

Immediately upon arriving at Air Intelligence Headquarters, Biggles was shown directly to the Air Commodore's private office, as was customary. Air Commodore Raymond gave him a smile of welcome as he rose from his desk and came to meet Biggles.

"Glad to see you looking so well," he said cheerfully. "I take it that you've fully recovered from that scratch you got in Monaco last month? And how is young Henri Ducoste settling in? I understand that he asked for a posting to 666 Squadron when he got out of hospital."

"I'm sure he'll fit in very well, sir," replied Biggles quietly. "I've given him a couple of weeks leave. You wouldn't know, of course, but his mother and sister were killed in a raid on London the day that he joined the squadron."

"How dreadful," murmured the Air Commodore, rather awkwardly. "No, I didn't know. How is he holding up?"

"Fairly well, I think. I'm more worried about Hebblethwaite. He was rather attached to Henri's sister Jeanette, and he's taken it very hard. He refuses to take any leave, and he's flying like a madman and drinking too much."

"Oh dear. What a sorry business. Do you want me to arrange to have Hebblethwaite posted to a training establishment until he gets over this?"

"To a flying training school? No, sir, I'm afraid that would only make things worse."

The Air Commodore shook his head sadly. "Very well, Bigglesworth, I won't interfere."

Then, with a change of tone, he went on crisply. "Take a seat, and I'll tell you what all this is about. Have a cigarette?"

"Thanks," Biggles lit his cigarette and pulled up a chair.

From his pocket the Air Commodore took an envelope, and opened it. Into the palm of his left hand he poured a number of tiny stones. The largest was about the size of a pea. He held it up. As the light fell on it, in some strange way it seemed to glow.

"What on earth are they?" asked Biggles.

"Diamonds," answered the Air Commodore. "Uncut diamonds. These are not gemstones. They are commercial diamonds. What I have to say about them will take a little time. Bring your chair round to this side of the desk so that you can follow me on the map when I refer to it."

As Biggles settled back into in his chair he looked at the map which, its corners held down by paper-weights, covered most of the top of the desk, and recognised South America.

"Right you are, sir, I'm ready," he announced.

The Air Commodore spoke quietly. "This story is mostly fact but padded with a certain amount of surmise dropped in to fill the gaps. However, it all ties up pretty well. I need hardly tell you that commercial diamonds are indispensable for high-class industrial purposes - fine engineering work, and the like - and they are in great demand at the moment. Everybody wants diamonds. About three months ago our agents in Germany reported that commercial diamonds, previously in short supply, had suddenly become abundant. At about the same time, our people in the United States informed us that a new supply of uncut diamonds was coming onto the American market. They think the diamonds are getting into the United States through Cuba, where we know there is some support for the Nazis. Certainly, the money seems to be finding its way into German hands. The quality of the stones is variable and most of them seem to be poor stuff, only good for diamond chips, which makes our gem experts pretty sure they don't come from South-West Africa. However, with the world in its present state, even diamond chips are worth having."

Raymond paused, and tapped the map with a pencil. "We know there were some German companies prospecting for diamonds in these areas - here, in southern Argentina - before the war started. There's plenty of volcanic activity around the Andes, as you can imagine, and prospectors have for a long time had hopes of finding a big field of diamondiferous gravel in that part of the world. We think the Germans have established a diamond mine in Argentina, and are running some of the rough diamonds up to the United States, via Cuba, by U-boat. Others they're getting back to Germany. Naturally, we want to stop these shipments. First, they help the German war machine. Second, the Germans are desperate for hard cash, as are we, and they seem to be raising quite a lot through these diamond sales - money that will enable the Nazi leaders to buy badly needed commodities from neutral countries. The money is not, of course, going through legitimate channels. The Americans sequested Nazi assets when they came into the war, but that won't stop this business."

"Very interesting. But what has this to do with me?"

"I'm coming to that if you'll bear with me a little longer. For one thing, there's a good chance that the Germans are using aircraft to get the diamonds from the mine to the coast, to the U-Boats."

Raymond indicated the map again. "Unfortunately, we don't have any very precise idea of where this mine might be located. The Argentine government granted permits before the war to explore for diamonds in the headwaters of the Deseado, Belgrano, Blanco, Challa, Santa Cruz, Coig and Brizo Sur Rivers. The most northerly of these is the Deseado, which runs into the sea at Bahia Blanca. The southernmost is the Brizo Sur, right down here near Rio Gallegos. That's rather a lot of ground to cover. All I can really say is that the areas under investigation were all in the lower foothills of the Andes. The stones are not born there, as you might say. They would have been washed down by floodwaters through ages of time from higher up in the mountains. Anyway, it's a long way to the Argentinian coast, over some pretty rough country. The fastest and safest mode of transport for a cargo like uncut diamonds is by air."

"How would the Germans get aircraft out to Argentina? You can't get aircraft into a U-boat."

"They could have taken them out in crates before the war. We suspect that shortly before war was declared the Germans sent large quantities of military stores out to various South American countries and cached them against future requirements. The German Secret Service has been pretty active in South America. Or they may be using aircraft, possible British or American machines, that they've bought in the Americas. The Argentine airforce bought some German planes just before the war, they may have got hold of some of those. There are any number of possibilities."

"Why not sink the U-boats?"

"Easier said than done. A fleet of destroyers could cruise the Argentine coast for months and not find them. And we can't spare destroyers – they're needed for convoy escort duty in the north Atlantic and the Mediterranean."

"So what do you expect me to do?" queried Biggles, lighting another cigarette.

"Find the mine, and knock the German transport craft out of the sky," responded the Air Commodore.

"How am I going to do that?"

"Our nearest territory is the Falkland Islands," replied the Air Commodore. "We have, as you know, a naval base there, at Port Stanley, on East Falkland. It has facilities for landing marine aircraft. There's also a small airfield. Apart from that, there really isn't a plan. If you take on the job, I'm content to leave the thing in your hands. Make your own arrangements. You can have anything you need in the way of equipment, within reason."

Biggles looked at the map again, and raised his eyebrows. "But Port Stanley is 300 miles north-east of the Magellan Strait, and nearly 500 miles from Rio Gallegos, which seems to be the nearest point on the Argentinian mainland. I'd need to operate from an aircraft carrier," he murmured, a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

"I'm sorry, Bigglesworth, I can't give you an aircraft carrier," replied the Air Commodore with a touch of asperity.

Biggles considered the Air Commodore with a wry smile. "I don't think I've ever said this before, sir, but don't you think, in asking me to take this on, you're asking too much? If the Germans are using an amphibious aircraft, it could rendezvous with the U-boat at a different place every time. It would be impossible to catch it."

"I've thought of that," declared Air Commodore Raymond. "I consider it unlikely, though, because of the quantity of diamonds that the Germans are thought to be shipping. There's a lot of romantic nonsense talked about gemstones, you know. Only one big stone in a hundred is worth much. If a diamond has flaws in it, if you try to cut it down to get a perfect piece, it's liable to fly to dust and you find you're left with nothing."

"How does that happen?"

"Because the flaws are minute pin-holes of compressed air, ready to explode if they're touched. The upshot is, a diamond cutter may need to sort through a lot of rubbish before coming up with a good stone."

Raymond picked up a slip of paper from his desk. "I've made some inquiries about this. Here are last year's production figures for Alexander Bay, the diamond field at the mouth of the Orange River: 2,435 tons of gravel yielded only 26,967 carats of industrial diamonds, 5,314 carats of second grade gem quality diamonds and 2,371 carats of first grade gem quality diamonds. The year before, 2,219 tons of gravel yielded only 24,755 carats of industrial diamonds, 4,998 carats of second grade gem quality diamonds and 2,051 carats of first grade gem quality diamonds. And Alexander Bay is the most valuable diamond field in the world!"

Raymond stubbed his cigarette and continued. "It seems most likely that the Germans are ferrying the entire production of uncut stones to a dump on the coast, and then loading the U-boats with a sufficient quantity to make the trip worthwhile. The diamonds are only sorted for quality when they get to their destination. It's questionable that an amphibious craft small and handy enough to get down on a rough airstrip somewhere in the wilds of southern Argentina could carry a sufficient load to justify a once-off rendezvous with a U-boat at sea. As you would know better than I, flying-boats and amphibians do fine for mails and first class passengers, but not for bulk merchandise."

"Even so, there are huge difficulties in operating effectively from the Falkland Islands," responded Biggles. "It would help me if I knew how far you are prepared to go."

"As far as you think necessary."

"Do you mean that - literally?"

"Well - er - yes."

"I don't think it will be possible to carry out this mission without making use of Argentine territory," Biggles replied slowly.

Air Commodore Raymond shrugged. "I don't care if you go into Argentina. We're prepared to antagonise the Argentines if necessary, although obviously we'd prefer not to. Remember, the diamonds are all that matters. Everything else is secondary."

"Even so, there are some obvious problems in running military operations in neutral airspace," answered Biggles drily, tapping a cigarette on the back of his hand. "If the Argentines got their hands on me, I'd spend the rest of the war in an internment camp. I find that a very unattractive proposition."

"If the Argentines get hold of you, you may find internment is the least of your problems," replied the Air Commodore in a serious tone. "There are plenty of German settlements in South America - and Argentina is no exception. There are British interests there, of course, but there are also many Germans and people of German parentage. We have our friends there, and the Germans have theirs. Further, Argentina being a Spanish-speaking country, the Argentine government is naturally on good terms with General Franco, and we know where his sympathies lie. You might recall that the crew of the _Admiral Graf Spee_ bolted to Argentina after she was scuttled in Montevideo harbour."

"Here, take a look at this." The Air Commodore pushed a photograph over his desk towards Biggles. It showed a tall, slim man, perhaps a little older than Biggles, with a keen, alert, handsome face and close-cropped hair. He was elegantly dressed in the field-grey uniform of a German officer and appeared to be engaged in close conversation with a swarthy, pompous-looking little man, with a flowing black moustache. The man was in evening dress, and the occasion was evidently a party or official function of some kind. Champagne glasses were in evidence, and other people could be seen in the background, also formally dressed.

"Recognise anybody?" asked the Air Commodore, whimsically.

Biggles studied the photograph for some time without speaking and without a change of expression. "Of course. Our old friend Erich von Stalhein, no less - all dressed up in his glad rags. How did this enchanting picture come into your hands, and what has it got to do with this affair?"

"It was taken by one of our agents in Argentina."

Air Commodore Raymond smiled slightly. "As it so happens, the society photographer of a leading Buenos Aires daily newspaper. He took it at a ball given at the German Embassy in Buenos Aires to celebrate Hitler's birthday, three months ago. The other man is Joachim del Vargos, the Argentine Air Minister. Our agent reports than von Stalhein spent the whole evening with del Vargos. Consequently, we suspect that if the Germans are operating aircraft in some remote part of Argentina, it is with the tacit knowledge and approval of at least some elements of the Argentine government."

"But if the Argentines are so friendly with the Germans, why don't they take the diamonds out through the front door, through Buenos Aires or another major port?"

"I can think of a few good reasons. Not all elements of the Argentine government are sympathetic to the Nazis. It might be difficult to ignore cargoes of uncut diamonds passing through the port of Buenos Aires. Further, we have agents in Buenos Aires and every other decent sized city. They haven't heard a thing about diamonds being smuggled out. No, it makes much more sense to quietly slip the diamonds over to the coast by air and discreetly load them onto a U-boat in some remote location, far from prying eyes."

"What about local knowledge? My Spanish is reasonable, and we spent a bit of time in Central and South America before the war but I've never been in Argentina."

"I can arrange to put you in touch with our people in Buenos Aires, who will give you all the information they have. By the way, your old acquaintance Carruthers - I understand you helped him out a while ago with a little trouble in British Honduras - has moved across to the Foreign Office, and is attached to the British Embassy in Buenos Aires."

"I still don't like the idea of this," replied Biggles lugubriously. "Shooting up a lot of neutrals is not my idea of the way to run a war."

"I'm not asking you to shoot up a lot of neutrals," the Air Commodore responded quickly. "My dear Bigglesworth, we've got to fight the enemy with his own weapons. All I'm asking you to do is locate the mine, intercept the plane flying the diamonds to the coast and shoot it down. It will almost certainly be flown by a German agent, not an Argentinian national."

"Very well," Biggles acknowledged, stubbing his cigarette in the ashtray. "I'll go and have a look at the map, get the thing sized up, and let you know what I think. To tell the truth, sir, I should be glad of an opportunity to get Hebblethwaite away from his Spitfire for a while."

"Will you take the whole squadron out with you?"

Biggles shook his head. "I don't think so, sir. This seems to be a job for a small team."

He got up to leave, and as an afterthought added, "May I take this photograph? Lacey and Hebblethwaite might be interested in seeing it."

"Of course, Bigglesworth."

Biggles picked up the photograph, saluted, and left Raymond's office.

He returned to the airfield at Rawlham just before lunch and went straight to his office, where he found Algy and Ginger, anticipating his return.

"I imagine that Air House has had another rush of blood to the brain," Algy observed. "What dizzy scheme have they thought of now?"

"Not dizzy - say interesting," responded Biggles, reaching for a cigarette.

"Where are we going?"

"Argentina."

Algy frowned. "But that's neutral territory."

Biggles smiled and blew a smoke ring. "So I'm told. That's why it should be interesting. And there is another reason why it should be interesting."

Before Biggles could go on there was an interruption from the door. It was opened, and the effeminate face of Flight Lieutenant Lord Bertie Lissie grinned a greeting into the room.

"What cheer, how goes it, and all that?" he murmured.

Biggles regarded him reflectively and said, "As a matter of fact, Bertie, we're off to Argentina shortly, and a fourth pilot would be useful. It's a special operation, and that recent business in Monaco has given you a bit of experience in that area. You had better stay and listen to this."

Bertie flicked up his eye-glass with approval and caught it in his eye. "Goody-goody," he murmured. "Argentina is in South America, where the jolly old bananas come from. That's me, every time."

"Don't flatter your appetite," Biggles told him seriously. "This is no fruity frolic. Further, it appears that the Argentines may not be particularly hospitable."

Biggles produced the photograph of von Stalhein and Joachim del Vargos, and placed it carefully on his desk. "This is a photo of an old friend of ours on the other side by the name of Erich von Stalhein getting very chummy with the Argentine Air Minister."

Bertie gazed at the photograph for a moment, and then declared, "Why dash it all, I know this chappie von Stalhein! I met him at a couple of parties in London before the war. But he wasn't a Hun then, by Jove. He called himself Count Stalek and said he was a Czech. He was always going on about how sick Hitler grabbing the Sudetenland made him."

"The spying hound," snorted Ginger in disgust.

Biggles shrugged. "If you take that attitude, our own careers wouldn't stand close investigation. After all, we may be going to Argentina as spies ourselves."

"Spying aside, von Stalhein is an absolute Nazi swine, Bertie," interjected Algy in a hard voice. "The last time we saw him was in Norway. He was going to have all three of us shot in cold blood, by a firing squad. Before that, we ran into him in Finland. He put a price on our heads - literally. Ginger heard him say he was willing to dispense with the bodies."

Biggles made a deprecatory gesture. "Why a swine?" he protested. "Be fair. You may not have realised it yet, but there's a war on! The man serves his country as we try to serve ours. As for that incident in Norway, I was wearing the uniform of a Boche officer and carrying a Gestapo pass at the time. Furthermore, I doubt that von Stalhein is a Nazi in any real sense. Primarily, he's a soldier and few soldiers have much time for politics. I think he would make no bones about being anything that suited him. At the moment it suits him to be a Nazi."

"Bah!" sneered Ginger. "You wouldn't make excuses for him if your family had been wiped out, like Tug Carrington and Henri Ducoste."

There was a brief and rather embarrassing silence. Biggles gazed through the window at the blue sky, drumming on his desk with his fingers, then picked up the telephone. "I had better let Raymond know straightaway that von Stalhein was floating around London just before the war. He may be interested," he announced crisply.

Biggles asked to be put through to Air Commodore Raymond as a matter of urgency. He spoke to him briefly, listened for a while, then hung up and turned to the others. "Raymond says that Intelligence are aware that von Stalhein was in London for a while before the war broke out, posing as a Czech refugee. They're not really sure what he was doing - possibly setting up bases for the transmission of intelligence information back to Germany. Raymond says that a while ago he cleaned up such a place not far away at East Weald, with the help of a bright young WAAF officer named Worralson. It was established before the war. Maybe von Stalhein was just sounding out how much support there was in England for war with Germany - although that's not his usual sort of job. Anyway, Bertie, Raymond would like a written report from you: where you saw von Stalhein, who he was friendly with - that sort of thing. Anyway, enough of this; let's go into lunch. We've work to do."


	2. Biggles makes his plans

**Chapter 2**

**Biggles makes his plans**

Biggles was silent most of the way through lunch, and when he took Algy, Ginger and Bertie into his office afterwards, he had more or less decided on the broad outline of a plan.

He gave them a resume of the project and then went on: "Our biggest problem is that the nearest British possessions are the Falkland Islands. Raymond had the idea that they could be used as a base for reconnaissance work. They're hopelessly too far away to be useful for that purpose. We should waste far too much time and juice just getting across to the Argentine coast. I've got another idea. Ginger and I will go to Argentina in a civil aircraft - preferably an American type, preferably an amphibian - posing as British employees of an American outfit. We can say we're photographing likely oil-bearing terrain. Algy and I were doing that for the Oil Investment Company of British Guiana for a while before the war. I'm sure Raymond can arrange the necessary papers. That will provide us with cover while we cruise down the coast from Buenos Aires. It would also give us an excuse for bringing cameras and photographic gear into the country. That would enable us to take a strip of photographs of possible sites to examine at leisure. After all, we can hardly land at this secret German airstrip and start asking questions."

"The Gosling would be a suitable machine for the purpose," interposed Algy. "It's a twin-engined, general utility amphibian. Better still, it's American-built, and used in civil as well as military applications."

"Yes," agreed Biggles. "That would work out very well. Raymond should be able to arrange to pick up a Gosling in the United States for us, on charter. We will want one with American registration marks."

"Will we use false names?" asked Ginger.

Biggles shook his head. "That would only complicate matters. It would mean false passports."

"That could be arranged, too."

"No doubt; but one slip and we shouldn't have a leg to stand on with the Argentinian authorities. We might arouse suspicion. After all, if our plan goes right, we might be genuine. But if we are found to be carrying dud passports we might as well admit that we are spies."

"Algy and Bertie will go to the Falklands," Biggles continued. "We'll use the milch-cow system invented by the Germans for their U-boats. Algy and Bertie will fly some kind of big machine out to meet us at pre-arranged rendezvous points from time to time. Using another aircraft as a refuelling tender will help us avoid attention. I believe that there's no dearth of aerodromes, even if they're a long way apart; but I shall endeavour to keep clear of them, for if ever it reaches von Stalhein's ears that we're in Argentina he'll know why and our job will be even more difficult than it is now. The supply machine will have to be a seaplane or amphibian as well, and I doubt that they'll have the sort of thing that we want in the Falklands. Algy and Bertie can go out via the Azores, Ascension Island and Tristan da Cunha. They can either go in a flying-boat or pick one up on the way. Frankly, I don't think we can make any more definite plan at this stage. The only thing we can do is wait until we spot the airstrip and then act for the best as the conditions suggest. Any questions?"

"And if everything works out according to plan, and you chaps discover the diamond mine, what then?" inquired Bertie, polishing his eye-glass.

A peculiar smile flitted across Biggles' face. "Well, the mine would have to obliterated - blotted out; otherwise there is no point in finding it, is there?"

"Of course - absolutely. Silly ass I am - what?" murmured Bertie apologetically.

Biggles paused to light a cigarette, and continued, "I'll ask Raymond to organise some military machines for use if and when we locate the airstrip that the Germans are using, or the mine. Algy and Bertie can bring our uniforms out with them to the Falklands because if it comes to shooting, when I stop a bullet it will be in my own pants. On a lighter note, one good thing about this mission is that in southern Argentina we won't need any special tropical kit, and we shouldn't be bothered by the insect pests that normally make a white man's life such a misery in the tropics."

"What d'you mean, old boy?" queried Bertie with interest. "South American jungles sound like fun; toucans, orchids, butterflies, all that sort of thing."

"He means," declared Algy, "Flies, bees, mosquitoes, ants, _piums_, tiny beasts worse than mosquitoes, which squirt a sort of acid into you eyes, _polvoras_ - the name really means 'powder', because they are so small. They fly about literally in billions and sting you all over. Worse still is the little horror known as the _carrapato_, which is a flat beast about the size of the end of a lead pencil. It has wonderful clinging powers by means of hooks on its feet. Its great object in life is to stick its head under your skin and suck your blood. The trouble is, you can't get it off. If you pull it the head breaks off and sticks in your skin and makes a nasty sore. The only way is to get it out with a pin."

"Any more horrors?" asked Bertie, in a shocked voice.

"Plenty," replied Biggles, smiling. "There are the _carrapatinhos_, which are the younger and perhaps more active brothers of the carrapatos. But they won't bother us; we aren't going into the jungle. Argentina is mostly pampas."

He glanced around at the little group. "You fellows may as well get your kit packed. I've got a few squadron matters to clear up to leave everything ship-shape for Angus Mackail to take over, but we should be able to get away tomorrow."

And so it came about that two weeks later, after an uneventful journey via the United States, a Gosling glided down to land at Ezeiza, the international airport of Buenos Aires, at about three o'clock in the afternoon. Biggles was at the controls, and Ginger seated beside him. They had made good time along the trunk line down South America although they had been held up in Montevideo for the best part of a day by punctilious officials who had insisted on making some further inquiries in relation to their carnets - the documents relating to the alleged purpose of their flight which enabled them to buy fuel and oil on credit. Ginger had not been altogether sorry at the delay, as while Biggles was dealing with the officials he had taken the opportunity to slip down to the harbour to see the spot where the German pocket battleship Admiral Graf Spee had been scuttled not long after the outbreak of the war.

The Gosling had proved to be an ideal choice. It had a comparatively slow cruising speed of about 150 m.p.h, which is an advantage for survey work. It had a slow landing speed and five watertight hull compartments, which was desirable in view of the nature of the mission, which would require landings on unknown waters. There was enclosed seating accommodation for five passengers, but Biggles had had the seats removed, the space thus made available being cleared for freight, for the machine was heavily loaded with all the equipment they were likely to need. The equipment included a small collapsible rubber boat, spirit stove, quantities of tinned food, warm clothing, and a two-man tent. Perhaps the most important pieces of equipment carried were the cameras, for vertical and oblique photography; for they would enable suspicious objects to be reproduced and studied at leisure. This in turn meant developing and printing devices. That the putative enemy landing strip would be well screened against air observation was a possibility not to be doubted, averred Biggles. The photographic equipment also gave colour to the Gosling's ostensible purpose in being in Argentina. So far as their real purpose for being there was concerned, there was so little to go on that in his heart Biggles had not much hope of success.

Algy and Bertie had made their around the other side of the world to the Falkland Islands, that wild, rocky, windswept, treeless group which formed the southernmost colony of the British Empire. Their instructions were to meet Biggles and Ginger at a largish but apparently uninhabited island shown on Admiralty charts as lying several hundred miles south of Buenos Aires, three days later, bringing with them a fresh supply of fuel and food. The island was shown on the charts as Isla Santina, but Bertie had immediately dubbed it "Treasure Island".

Periodic rendezvous were anticipated to be the only regular means of communication between the two parties as although the Gosling was fitted with radio, it was not sufficiently powerful to reach the Falklands. However, the call sign consisting only of the cypher X L had been agreed as a precaution, in the event that both the need and the opportunity to send a wireless message to Port Stanley arose.

The first hour Biggles and Ginger spent on the ground was taken up in refuelling, finding accommodation for the aircraft and going through the usual tedious formalities; and in this respect, Ginger noted with some alarm, there was nothing slack about the way the Argentinian customs officials went about their business. However, after careful thought, Biggles had decided not to try to take weapons or large amounts of Argentinian currency into Argentina in the Gosling, on the grounds that British agents in Buenos Aires could supply these and it was better not to risk being caught with anything that contradicted their cover story, and at the finish they were "cleared".

The hangar in which Biggles and Ginger were directed to park the machine was located at the perimeter of the airstrip. As they taxied up to the hangar Ginger noticed a high wire fence, topped with barbed wire, running across the airfield behind the hangar, and on the other side of the fence, to Ginger's surprise, stood two or three Messerschmitt 109s. Then he recalled that he had heard Biggles say that the Argentine airforce, the Aeronavale, used part of the Buenos Aires airport, and they had purchased some German machines just before the outbreak of the war. The Messerschmitts were not, of course, decorated with the Latin cross and the swastika of the Luftwaffe, but painted in an unfamiliar colour scheme which Ginger assumed to be the livery of the Argentine airforce. Although Ginger had often encountered these sleek monoplanes in combat, he had rarely had an opportunity to see them on the ground and while Biggles manoevered the Gosling into the hangar he wandered over to the fence for a better look.

Having satisfied his curiosity, Ginger returned to the Gosling and asked, "Now what's the drill?"

"Taxi to the Hotel Guibert," replied Biggles. "According to Raymond's information, it's close to the airfield. It's a haunt for pilots, and it would be consistent with our story to stay there. You never know, we might pick up some useful gossip in the bar or the dining room as well."

"He added, with a warning frown, "Remember, Argentina is a neutral country. We may run into some stray Boche at the hotel. If we do - keep away from them. We don't want to start any trouble."

"Okay, chief," promised Ginger.

Biggles continued, "A man from the British Embassy will meet us at the hotel and give us some local intelligence. You remember Carruthers, from British Honduras?"

Ginger nodded.

"He's on the staff of the Embassy here. He'll be coming over at six o'clock."

"Why aren't we going to the British Embassy?" asked Ginger in surprise.

"I imagine that it's watched. I don't think it would be wise to go anywhere near the place."

Biggles and Ginger found the Hotel Guibert without difficulty. In fact, their taxi driver, observing their flying kit, asked them whether they wanted to be taken there even before they got into the vehicle. The hotel turned out to be quite a small place, consisting of a ground floor with a reception area, dining room, etc, and an upper floor used for bedrooms and bathrooms. However, their reception was cordial, and the staff spoke excellent English, no doubt for the benefit of the American pilots who patronised it. They were shown to a large and pleasant double room, overlooking the back garden of the hotel.

Biggles and Ginger decided that they should have a bath, which was needed after their long journey, and wait in their room until Carruthers arrived. Promptly at six o'clock, the telephone rang in the airmen's room. It was the hotel reception, advising that a Mr Carruthers was there to see them. Biggles requested that their visitor be shown straight up to their room.

Carruthers greeted them warmly, and produced a bundle from his briefcase.

"Here's the money - plenty of Argentinian pesos - and those Argentine air force maps you asked for. I've got two copies of the maps, as you requested. And here are two automatics and plenty of spare ammunition."

"Do the maps show all the emergency landing grounds used by the Argentines?" queried Biggles, offering Carruthers a cigarette.

"Yes; you can't miss them, the Argentines lay down the usual white chalk ring on the ground to make the landing ground conspicuous to airmen. These maps also show the private landing strips notified to the Air Ministry as the home base of Argentine-registered aircraft," replied Carruthers.

"You needn't tell me any details of your mission," he went on. "I assume it's something that it would be better if His Britannic Majesty's diplomatic representatives in Buenos Aires didn't know about."

"You may well be right there," smiled Biggles. "Now what can you tell me about Argentine military and civil aviation in the south?"

"Argentina has, as you can imagine, no aircraft building industry of its own. The aircraft in the country are mainly a mixture of British, American and German machines. That applies to the Argentine air force as well. They've got quite a lot of older British machines for general purpose work; for example they've got a couple of Dragon Moths for transport work, and some Avro trainers. So far as military aircraft are concerned, more recently they've bought stuff from the United States and Germany. They bought quite a lot of Messerschmitt 109s just before the war started. That was fairly natural, given that Franco's lot used them in Spain and were pretty impressed with them. I believe, given the distances to be covered here, the Argentines have had them fitted with extra long range fuel tanks."

"Yes, we saw a couple of Messerschmitts at the airport," nodded Biggles. "Where are the main operations of the Argentine air force conducted?"

"There are the usual South-American border tensions with Bolivia, Paraguay and Uruguay in the north, and Chile in the west. The Argentines also have a presence in the south. As you may know, Tierra del Fuego, the large island that forms the tip of the South American continent, is divided into two parts. The eastern half belongs to Argentina and the western half to Chile, and the Argentines have a chain of airstrips running from Buenos Aires down to Rio Grande, in their territory in Tierra del Fuego. They built some military facilities down south a few years ago, when there was some trouble over the Falklands Islands, or Los Malvinas, as the Argentines call them. They've always claimed them, you know. The most southerly of these facilities is at Puerto Guano, which is the port for the town of Rio Gallegos. It rejoices in the name of Puerto Guano because it was originally established as a port for the export of guano, in which there was quite a big trade in southern Argentina at the turn of the century. Actually, the Argentines first established a naval base at Puerto Guano for the purpose of anti-guano poaching patrols. They put the airstrip close to the port because all the supplies come by sea; I believe the roads are pretty ordinary south of San Julian although I haven't been there myself. Now there's no money in guano and the port is used for the meat export trade. There's an extensive freezing plant there."

Biggles drew heavily on his cigarette. "The Argentine air force could be a nuisance. Do you know how many machines, and what types, are based at Puerto Guano?"

"So far as I know, none at the moment. It was put on a care and maintenance basis a few months ago. I believe the aircraft were shifted up north because there's currently a border dispute with Paraguay over some recent discoveries of gold deposits. However, my information is a little out of date. It's got more difficult recently to get information out of the Argentine Air Ministry; our source was suddenly posted to another department a little while ago."

"When was that, out of curiosity?" queried Biggles.

"About four months ago, why do you ask?" responded Carruthers.

"Just testing a little theory," replied Biggles, smiling. "It was about that time ago that an old German friend of ours was spotted getting very friendly with del Vargos, the Minister for Air."

Carruthers nodded. "It's well known that's where del Vargo's sympathies lie," he commented.

What about civil aviation?" went on Biggles.

"So far as civil aviation is concerned, Pan-American Airways don't fly any further south than Buenos Aires, but you know that, of course. The Argentines have a domestic line, and it runs regular flights down to the coast from Buenos Aires to San Julian via Bahia Blanca, Comodoro Rivadavia, Puerto Madryn and Puerto Deseado. I believe that it isn't economical to fly a regular airline service between San Julian and Rio Grande, so the Argentine Air Ministry have put on an aircraft to take mail and despatches and the odd official passenger on down the coast to Rio Grande once a week. It's a milk-run, so it stops at a number of places but I think it refuels at Puerto Guano. And of course there are a number of charter operators, some aero clubs, and a few private airstrips. There's a great sheep and wool industry in southern Argentina and Patagonia, chiefly in the hands of a mixed community of Europeans, including British, and a couple of the big British pastoral concerns have their own airstrips dotted around the place."

"Is there anybody who we could count on if we get into a spot of bother?"

Carruthers thought for a moment. "I think I can help you there. The British & Imperial Pastoral Company have some private airstrips and the main one is at a place called Vicuna, which is about 30 miles north of Puerto Guano. A retired R.A.F officer, named O'Neilson, is in charge there. He's a good type. He told me he served in France in the last war, and was posted to H.Q. Intelligence after being busted up by a Hun near Estree."

"That must be Pat O'Neilson!" exclaimed Biggles. "We served in the same squadron in France, many years ago. About 1934 or '35 - speaking from memory - Algy Lacey and I were flying home from the Far East in an old amphibious aircraft named the Vandal, and we ran into O'Neilson in Karachi. He was in Intelligence there."

"It sounds like the same chap," nodded Carruthers. "O'Neilson could be useful to you - he keeps a decent stock of fuel, and he's got a powerful radio transmitter at Vicuna. It's used to keep in touch with the company's other properties."

"If it is O'Neilson, he owes me a favour; Algy and I helped him out with a spot of bother he was having with a gentleman named Ivan Nikitoff when we saw him in Karachi," smiled Biggles.

"Thanks, Carruthers," he continued. "You've given us quite a lot of useful information. Let's go downstairs and have a drink before you go."

"I'm sorry, I can't stay," replied Carruthers regretfully, getting up. "I'm wanted back at the British Embassy. The Germans are holding a bash at their Embassy tonight – we're never invited, of course - and we always hold a rival show on the same night."

"That must put the Argentines on the spot," Biggles commented. "They must have to send equally senior ministers to each function, for fear of causing offence."

"That's right," replied Carruthers, smiling.

"I assume del Vargos will attend the German function?" queried Biggles.

"Oh yes, he'll be at the German Embassy tonight," was the response. "Well, goodbye and good luck."

"We'll come downstairs with you," declared Biggles. "We may as well have a look around."


	3. An unexpected encounter

**Chapter 3**

**An unexpected encounter**

After saying goodbye to Carruthers, Biggles and Ginger decided to while away the hour or so before dinner by having a drink, and looking out for other pilots from whom they might glean useful information. They settled down at one of the small tables at the far end of the entrance hall near the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floor, and Biggles called a waiter.

"I'll have a glass of beer - what do you want, Ginger?"

"Whisky."

Biggles frowned, and opened his mouth but what he intended to say was never spoken. A footfall sounded on the stairs, and a tall, slim man, dressed in a long coat as if he was going out and carrying a parcel under his arm, ran lightly down and stepped out onto the floor. From where Ginger was sitting he could not see the man's face, but he saw Biggles stiffen.

"Don't look now," he breathed to Ginger. "It's von Stalhein. Too late, he's seen us."

If the German was surprised to see the two Englishmen he did not show it. For a moment von Stalhein stood still, and then he raised a monocle to his right eye and approached them, but slowly, as if he was feeling his way cautiously to find out what sort of reception awaited him. Reaching their table, he clicked his heels and bowed stiffly from the waist. A faint sardonic smile curved his lips, but his blue eyes were as cold and hard as ever. He was unchanged since they had last seen him, save that his sunburnt face bespoke recent service in hot climates.

"My dear Major Bigglesworth, and, yes, it is our young friend with the difficult name - Hebblethwaite," said von Stalhein with more than a suspicion of a sneer, in his perfect English. "Our meeting here this evening was a happy coincidence. Otherwise I might not have known that you were in the country. That, you will agree, would have been a pity."

"We've met in some queer places, but I little thought that we should bump into each other here," returned Biggles evenly, selecting a cigarette from his case and tapping it on the back of his hand. "But there, I suppose it s only natural that we should so often find ourselves on the same job. Don't let us detain you, though, if you're in a hurry."

"As a matter of fact, I am rather busy. There are some urgent matters that need my attention," replied von Stalhein. "Goodbye - for now. We shall meet again, no doubt."

And with that he bowed again, and then strode swiftly towards the door. Biggles watched him go, with a curious expression on his face, while the waiter brought their drinks to their table.

"Pah! I don't know how you can be civil to that skunk von Stalhein," muttered Ginger bitterly, taking a gulp from his glass. "Whatever I've got to say to a Hun, I'll say with a bunch of guns - if it's all the same to you."

He added accusingly, "You practically told von Stalhein that we were here after the diamonds."

"There was no point in denying it. Von Stalhein knows perfectly well that there can be only one reason why we would be in Argentina. He as good as said so. At least we've learned one thing. It seems pretty clear that von Stalhein is using this hotel for the same reason we are – it's close to the airport. That tends to confirm Raymond's suspicions that the Boche are using aircraft for the diamond smuggling. Still, I'm sorry he's seen us. Now he knows we're on the job and he'll act accordingly. In effect it means he's scored the first point, as you might say. Now he must be wondering, and wondering hard, how much we know."

"What do you think he's doing here?"

"Attending this function at the German Embassy tonight, no doubt to keep an eye on del Vargos," conjectured Biggles. "Did you see that coat he was wearing? It's not cold enough for a coat like that - and I saw a flash of grey underneath. I'd say he's wearing his German uniform, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself, so he put the coat on over the top. His cap must have been in the parcel he was carrying."

"Hopefully he'll be too busy tonight to organise any unpleasantness. If he's going to the Embassy function, presumably he won't be back until very late."

"I wouldn't bet on that, but we had better get some dinner anyway," replied Biggles. "On jaunts of this sort it's sound policy to eat while you have the chance. From now on we may for some time be living out of cans. Let's find the dining room; it's on the ground floor past the reception desk."

Ginger looked at his watch. "We've time for another drink before dinner," he suggested.

Biggles gazed at him thoughtfully. "Are you still thinking about Jeanette Ducoste?"

Ginger glared. "Do you think I've forgotten her?" he demanded harshly. "I was absolutely crazy about her. She was the most marvelous thing. Yes, I was thinking about her, and her mother, and Tug Carrington's parents, and - oh - all the other helpless civilians that the Nazis have dropped their foul bombs on - the murdering swine!"

"Listen, laddie," said Biggles. "I really am sorry about Jeanette. It was a tragedy. But let us get this clear. You've known Algy and me for a long time. We don't brood and we don't booze, and frankly, we haven't got much confidence in a fellow who grabs a bottle when things get sticky."

Ginger flushed scarlet. "What would you know about it, Biggles?" he flared.

"That's no way to talk to your commanding officer," returned Biggles coldly.

He continued, more gently, "I understand how you feel, better than you know. I tried to drown something I wanted to forget in whisky once, when I was young, and got shot down. Never again. Take a word of fatherly advice. If you go on ginning-up you'll be no use to yourself or anyone else. We needn't say any more about it - but think it over."

Biggles stubbed his cigarette and got up. "Let's get going."

As they went into the hotel dining room, Biggles saw someone who he recognised - an American pilot by the name of Cyrus Lindsay whom he had met on a previous trip to the United States when he had test-flown some machines for the British Government with a view to purchase. Biggles asked him if he knew anything of flying conditions in southern Argentina. The American told him that he was now flying one of the big Pan-American clippers that operated up and down the coast from the United States to Argentina, but went no further south than Buenos Aires. However, he was meeting a friend who flew for the Argentine domestic airline, and invited the two British airmen to join them for dinner. A pleasant meal of the popular national dish of Cazuela de Ave - which turned out to be an appetizing casserole of chicken with mixed vegetables - was had, but Biggles and Ginger learned little of interest. Lindsay's friend told them only what they already knew; that the only regular aviation service south of San Julian was the Argentine Air Ministry plane that flew mail and dispatches to Rio Grande in Tierra del Fuegos. He mentioned that he had seen the machine regularly on the tarmac at San Julian on a Thursday morning, and it was a Dragon Moth with civil markings.

One piece of useful information that he gave them was that the southern Argentine coast was prone to violent storms and sudden fogs in early spring, which could blow up unexpectedly out of a clear sky and hang around for a day or so. He mentioned that from time to time this caused disruption to the airline's scheduled flights.

Biggles and Ginger did not make a late night of it, as they were intending to leave early the next morning, and it was well before ten o'clock that they made their excuses and said goodnight to the two Americans. Biggles and Ginger were the first to leave the dining room, and the only guests about as they started towards the central staircase which led from the ground floor to the upper floor. As they reached the foot of the stairs Biggles halted, and remarked casually to Ginger, "You go on up to the room. I want to get away first thing tomorrow, so I'll settle up our account now."

Biggles walked away in the direction of the reception desk, and Ginger started off up the stairs alone. He was about to move forward from the stairwell into the corridor, which was dimly lit by a handful of table lamps, when suddenly he saw a shadowy figure moving with furtive stealth towards the far end of the corridor where Biggles' and Ginger's room was located. Ginger froze, but it did not occur to him that the intruder was anything but an ordinary thief who was going through the rooms looking for valuables. He watched as the intruder paused in front of the door of their room, produced a bunch of keys and began trying various keys in the door. The door swung open and the man went in, closing the door behind him. A moment later a chink of light showed beneath the door.

Ginger hesitated for a moment, undecided as to whether he should call the hotel staff or attempt to deal with the situation himself. Then he made up his mind, and carefully tiptoed up the corridor. Reaching the door of their room, his hand closed over the old-fashioned china doorknob. With infinite care he turned it. The door yielded to his pressure. Slowly, and, as it seemed, without making a sound, it swung open. But there must have been a slight noise, or perhaps a draught, for a man who had been bending over an open valise lying on one of the beds spun round, so that he and Ginger stood face to face. For a brittle second neither moved nor spoke. Then a squat automatic appeared as if by magic in the man's hand. At almost the same instant, Ginger heard a step behind him. Biggles' voice spoke sharply.

"What the devil's going on here?"

The man dashed to the window, which stood wide open, and went through it like a bird. There was a crashing noise in the bushes below the window, and then silence. With swift strides Biggles crossed the room to the window, and looked out.

"He's got away," he reported.

"I was never so pleased to see anyone," declared Ginger. "That fellow had a gun!"

"Did he, by Jove! What happened?"

"I saw him sneaking into our room, so I followed him. I thought I'd catch him red-handed. What brought you along so smartly?"

"The reception staff mentioned that a friend of ours - friend, eh? - had telephoned, inquiring about our room number. Let's see if our visitor has taken anything."

The Argentinian maps that Carruthers had brought were lying in plain sight, having obviously been discovered and handled.

"The money hasn't been touched," Biggles said slowly. "And look at these - skeleton keys! That fellow didn't have time to grab them before he bolted."

Biggles picked up the skeleton keys and examined them closely. "German manufacture," he said grimly. "I'd say that was a German agent."

"Was he sent to kill us?"

"Unlikely. That would be too risky, even for von Stalhein. He'd know we'd be armed, and if there was shooting the police would be called. They may not be under the influence of his Argentinian pals. There might have been a nice little mess. No, I think the fellow was only sent to search our room. Von Stalhein could have organised that as soon as he got to the German Embassy. We were lucky we finished dinner when we did - another five minutes, and that chap would have finished the job. By thunder, once von Stalhein knew we were here, he didn't waste any time doing something about it!"

"What do you think he was looking for?"

"Anything that would give von Stalhein a clue as to how much we know, and what our plans are."

"This has given me an idea. Why don't we search his room?" inquired Ginger. He was feeling belligerent, having recovered from his fright. "We've got the skeleton keys now."

Biggles sat on the edge of his bed and lit a cigarette. He shook his head. "No. For two very good reasons. The first is that we don't know which room is his. I don't fancy prowling around like a common hotel thief. The second reason is that von Stalhein wouldn't be likely to be careless enough to leave anything of interest lying around in a hotel room while he's out."

"We could make inquiries about him at reception."

"He won't be using his own name. No, I think a spot of blanket-drill is indicated. We shall have to be on the move as soon as it's daylight."

"All right, you win," agreed Ginger, starting to undress. "Let's get to bed."

Biggles dropped the skeleton keys into a pocket. "Still, I think I'll bring these along; they may come in useful. One never knows," he observed casually.

Dawn was creeping slowly into a world left colourless by the shadows of night when Biggles and Ginger rose, dressed and made their way back to the airport. Vaguely, Ginger noticed that there seemed to be more Messerschmitt 109s on the other side of the wire fence than there had been before. In particular, he couldn't recall seeing the one parked closest to the fence - which had a distinctive blue-painted propeller boss and tail fin - the previous afternoon. He was just about to remark on this to Biggles when a sharp cry from Biggles caused the matter to pass from his mind.

"What do you make of that?" asked Biggles, pointing to a sort of swelling on the Gosling's starboard rear exhaust pipes, which projected from the engine cowling. Moving nearer, Ginger observed that something had been bound onto one of the pipes with black adhesive tape, so that in the ordinary way it would not have been noticed. Biggles took out his penknife and opened the small blade.

"Stand well back, Ginger," he ordered curtly. Then, slowly and with infinite care, he raised the end of the tape and unwound it. A small metal tube came into view. Very, very carefully, in dead silence, he removed it, and with a deep breath, stepped back.

"I don't know what this is," he said in a hard voice. "But I can guess. It looks like one of those small gelignite demolition bombs that they issue to Commandos. The heat of the exhaust, when that engine was started, would, I imagine, have been enough to do all that was necessary. There would have been a loud bang. The aircraft would have disintegrated - and no-one would ever have known why."

"Who put that there - von Stalhein?" asked Ginger.

"I don't think that there's much doubt that he's responsible, although I can't think that he did the actual job," asserted Biggles. "I don't mind saying that this has shaken me a bit. To give the devil his due, he's efficient. First, the attempt to search our room last night - and now this. Well, it confirms what we suspected. He could only have got information that the Gosling is our machine through del Vargos pulling some strings with the airport staff. He wouldn't have time last night to find that out through his own inquiries, and arrange to have this bomb planted."

He continued, grim-faced, "At least we know where we stand. Argentina may be a neutral country, but this is war. I feel a lot more comfortable knowing that Algy and Bertie can keep us supplied with fuel. It wouldn't be safe to leave the machine for a minute at any of the official airports."

"We'll set von Stalhein a poser when he gets no reports of a Gosling landing anywhere. That should keep him guessing," declared Ginger.

"Probably not for long," Biggles replied. "He'll know that Algy must be around the place somewhere. Now, let's get airborne."

Five minutes later the Gosling was in the air, heading south-west, with the sun rising behind them. To starboard ran the coast of Argentina, and to port lay the open sea.


	4. Southward bound

**Chapter 4**

**Southward bound**

For the rest of that first morning, the Gosling droned slowly southward. For the early part the course lay over lush forests, acres of sugar cane, orange groves, lakes and rivers. Only later would these give way to the famous pampas, the southern plains of shimmering grass with their vast herds of cattle. Settlements were frequent, and in mid afternoon they came to a major town.

"That will be Bahia Blanca," observed Biggles. "No point in wasting petrol going around it, we'll just keep on."

Once they were well clear of Bahia Blanca, Biggles throttled back and looked for a suitable beach, far from any settlement, to put the machine down on. The time was still on the early side, but, as Biggles said, they had had enough flying for one day. The beach that Biggles chose shelved too steeply for a landing, but after making a false run over the water to confirm that it was free from obstruction, he put the aircraft down without trouble. For the next few minutes, after Biggles had taxied close inshore, they were busy making everything snug. After that there was nothing more to do.

Biggles took the Primus from its locker. "We'll have a cup of tea and then go ashore to stretch our legs," he suggested.

"Are you going to sleep on board?" asked Ginger.

"I don't think so. I'd rather sleep on the beach under the stars. It's not too cold this far north, and we seem to have the place to ourselves."

The only signs of life were, in fact, a few gulls that wheeled around the aircraft mewing their disapproval of it.

By the time preparations were made to spend the night ashore the sun was dropping towards the peaks of the Andes far to the west. Early to bed, morning saw Biggles and Ginger deflating their pneumatic mattresses while the sun was still climbing up from the eastern horizon, and before long the Gosling was cruising down its southerly course.

Ginger knew that Biggles had no clear-cut plan of campaign. There was a faint hope that they might see one of the U-boats and track it to the place being used to load the diamonds, for a pilot is able to see a submarine as clearly under water as if it were afloat. However, no great reliance could be placed on this possibility, and therefore Biggles' first idea was to investigate the emergency landing strips marked on the Argentine airforce maps, and to also keep an eye out for signs of any airstrip not marked on the Argentine maps. Biggles reasoned that any airfield likely to be of use to the Germans would be close to the coast, and bear some signs of recent traffic, both by aircraft and ground transport. A truck or large car at the least would be required to transport the raw diamonds to the place where they were loaded onto the U-boat. He had said that he didn't think that it was worthwhile making investigations between Buenos Aires and Bahia Blanca, as Air Commodore Raymond was convinced the diamond mine must be located further south, and so the search would begin in earnest today.

For rather more than half an hour after taking off not a word was spoken. Ginger, with the Argentinian map on his knees, plotted a course south towards the first landing strip that Biggles proposed to investigate. As they approached it, he tapped Biggles on the shoulder, and pointed downwards. Suddenly, the port engine cut suddenly, picked up, went on again, cut again, and then continued with an uneven note. The machine lost height. Ginger, of course, assumed that the power unit was failing, and was about to make a remark to that effect when he saw Biggles' hand moving the throttle. Instead of saying what he was going to say, he remarked sharply: "What the dickens are you doing?"

"I'm afraid we may be going to have a spot of engine trouble," answered Biggles, smiling curiously. "We shall have a forced landing. I'm hoping to create the impression to anyone on the ground that we're having a spot of bother, which would account for us landing. I think we can take the risk of landing at these emergency landing strips. We shall find out what's going on a lot more quickly than if we stayed topsides."

The engine which had been running unevenly now cut abruptly and, powered only by the starboard engine, the nose of the machine went down, and in a minute was gliding down towards the bare brown earth that formed the surface of the airstrip. The white chalk circle could be clearly seen in the centre, and a tattered wind stocking flapped from a pole at one end, next to a small shed.

"Ginger, you fiddle about with the engine and make a pretext of fixing it, while I have a look about," ordered Biggles.

Biggles walked quickly over to investigate the shed. A sign in Spanish proclaimed it to be the property of the Argentinian Government, and promised severe penalties for unauthorised interference. Biggles pushed open the door and saw at a glance that it contained drums of fuel and oil together with sundry other supplies likely to be of use to stranded airmen. Everything seemed dusty and disused.

Next to the shed was the beginning of a rough track that led away through the low scrub that surrounded the landing ground, presumably in the direction of the nearest settlement. Biggles examined the ground closely for signs of recent use by motor vehicles, but without success. While he was doing so, a man, riding a weary-looking horse appeared. He wore a sombrero on the back of his head and the ends of a red handkerchief, tied round his neck, dangled on a check shirt. A long thin cigar drooped from his lips. He carried a quirt. A lariat hung from his saddle. He stopped, looked at the aircraft and smiled cynically. However, he answered Biggles cheerfully enough when he greeted him with usual _"Buenos dias, senor."_

It turned out that he was a local _gaucho_, or cowboy, and also the caretaker of the emergency landing ground. Having heard the Gosling's engine, and seen it land, he had come to investigate. Biggles explained that he and his companion were employees of an American firm, engaged in photographic survey work, and had made an emergency landing due to engine trouble. The fellow proved to be both friendly and talkative and in a few minutes had told Biggles that it was six months since the landing strip had last been used. Given the disused state of the track leading from the landing strip, Biggles felt inclined to believe that the man was telling the truth. Assuring the man that his colleague would be able to fix the engine problem, Biggles then walked back to the machine, where Ginger was making a show of clearing a blocked fuel lead.

"Who was that chap? What did he want?" questioned Ginger anxiously.

"Caretaker. He just happened to be about the place when we landed," responded Biggles briefly.

"Do you think they have these fellows stationed at all these emergency landing grounds? If they report back to Buenos Aires that they've seen us it won't be long before von Stalhein rumbles our game."

Biggles shrugged. "I doubt that cowboy will be reporting to anyone. I imagine he's paid a few pesos to keep an eye on things and make sure that people don't pinch the emergency supplies. Now, let's get mobile."

To narrate in detail the hours that followed would be monotonous reiteration. Suffice it to say that the procedure of landing at emergency landing strips was repeated twice, without result, before the day ended. It turned out to be a more time-consuming task than had been anticipated, as they maintained the subterfuge of having engine trouble as an excuse for landing. Photographs were also taken of an area that looked promising, but when they were developed and examined that evening they yielded nothing of interest.

Another dawn found the Gosling again in the air after another quiet nig ht spent on a deserted beach. As soon as it was light enough to offer fair visibility, Biggles headed south, as they were to rendezvous with Algy and Bertie at the island which Bertie insisted on referring to as Treasure Island, at ten o'clock that morning. They had no difficulty finding the place and presently, after following the usual procedure, the Gosling rocked gently to a standstill within a few yards of the beach in a cove on the sheltered side of the island. Finding a suitable patch of sand, Biggles lowered his wheels and crawled up on to it, so they could step out onto dry ground. The two airmen jumped down to stretch their legs and wait. Ten o'clock came and went but Algy and Bertie did not appear. Ginger looked anxiously up into the sky.

"They're late," he muttered.

Biggles was unconcerned. "I made sure we'd get here first," he stated calmly, lighting a cigarette.

After another half an hour or so, the hum of multiple power units was heard from the east, and a medium sized twin-engined flying-boat transport with the familiar red, white, and blue ring markings of the Royal Air Force painted on its boat shaped hull and wings, appeared. With the serene dignity of a monarch bestowing a favour the flying-boat kissed the calm water of the cove and in a surge of creamy foam came to rest not far from the shore. Algy and Bertie appeared at the cabin door and waved to Biggles and Ginger. They then busied themselves with launching an inflatable dingy, into which they piled a number of regulation four gallon petrol tins and some other supplies, and paddled slowly to where the Gosling was drawn up on the sand.

"How's it going?" asked Algy cheerfully, as he scrambled out of the dinghy. "Sorry we're late, there was a bit of a head wind coming across which slowed us down."

Biggles replied shortly. "We've seen nothing of interest as yet. Further, von Stalhein knows we're in Argentina, and he's already had one shot at putting us out of action - permanently. We'll give you the gen later. For now, all hands help to refuel the Gosling."

"But here, I say, old boy, what about a spot of brekker first?" protested Bertie reproachfully through his monocle. "We started for Treasure Island at a ghastly hour and the old tummy feels a bit emptyish - if you get what I mean?"

"I don't want your machine spending any more time within sight of the Argentine coast than it has to. A machine with Royal Air Force markings is bound to attract notice. The last thing we want is someone whistling up a flight of Argentinian fighters to shoot you down. They'd be within their rights to attack a R.A.F plane in their airspace without permission," was Biggles' uncompromising reply. "Get cracking."

Everyone helped to get the petrol tins up onto the beach, and the spirit they contained was transferred to the tanks of the Gosling in a couple of aluminium cans that Algy and Bertie had brought for that purpose. It was slow work, and it took them an hour to finish the job. Biggles relaxed a little when the task had been completed, and agreed to the preparation of a frugal snack. Over jammy biscuits and tea, Biggles and Ginger quickly related their adventures since arriving in Buenos Aires. Algy and Bertie reported that at the Falklands they had received a cordial welcome from the Colonial Secretary and the British Naval Officer in charge, but Air Commodore Raymond had not yet provided any military aircraft for their use. However, he had arranged for orders to be sent through to the Fleet Air Arm for the Royal Navy to make available any machines requested by Biggles from any aircraft carrier or other British ship which happened to pass through the vicinity. They had also brought to the Falklands Biggles' and Ginger's R.A.F. uniforms.

Biggles gave Algy and Bertie the second set of Argentine maps and arranged their next rendezvous. The risk of the flying-boat being seen and reported to the Argentinian authorities was discussed again. Biggles pointed out that, apart from the likelihood of the information being passed on to von Stalhein, unauthorised intrusions into Argentinian airspace by British military aircraft could become a political issue. Questions could be asked in the House of Commons. Biggles said that while Raymond had given him _carte blanche_ to do what he liked, he was not prepared to take the risk of causing an international rumpus at this stage of the game.

"Did you never hear of a stuff called paint? We could paint out our own nationality marks and substitute those of Argentina," suggested Algy.

"It's going too far to paint the machine in Argentinian colours, but you can wash out the R.A.F. rings and British nationality markings and put up the letters S.K." replied Biggles.

Algy looked puzzled. "Whose markings are those?" he queried.

"As far as I'm aware, no country at all," smiled Biggles. "That's why I chose them. Now, you'd better get going. We'll see you in three days, at 10 am again. Here's the drill. If we're not at the rendezvous, you'll know something unforeseen has happened; but don't get in a flap, and don't be in too big a hurry to do something. Give us a day or two. Wait an hour or so at the rendezvous point, and then push off, keeping an ear open for radio messages. I shouldn't need to tell you that there will be no transmitting, except in case of emergency, for the obvious reason that signals might be picked up by the wrong people. Come back to the rendezvous twenty-four hours later, unless you hear to the contrary. This applies to all of our agreed meeting points."

As Algy and Bertie prepared to paddle back to their machine in the dingy, Bertie remarked in a disappointed voice, gesturing towards the scrubby trees that fringed the beach, "I say, chaps, this isn't my idea of a tropical paradise."

"What did you expect?" inquired Biggles.

"I thought there might be a few palm trees and what-have-you knocking about. At least it ought to be warm enough for bathing."

"It's the end of winter here in the Southern Hemisphere," returned Biggles. He added, "It'll get colder, too, as we get further south, and I expect we'll see seals and penguins - and where there are seals and penguins, there are probably sharks. That's another reason to keep clear of the water."

Bertie looked horrified. "I say, old boy, I thought sharks only lived in warm waters."

"Not at all. The biggest ones, the Great White Pointers, are found mostly in cold waters, in the Great Australian Bight, and off the Cape of Good Hope. They feed mainly on seals and sealions, but they're not partial about what they eat. I have a feeling that if they don't live in Argentinian waters, they have a cousin with similarly nasty habits that does. I suggest you avoid the water."

"No fear of me taking a dip, by Jove," replied Bertie warmly. "No bally fear."

Biggles and Ginger watched Algy and Bertie paddle out to the flying-boat. In a few minutes it took off and headed south. The Gosling followed suit shortly afterwards.

For over a week the search for the elusive landing strip continued, but without the slightest encouragement. Nor did Biggles and Ginger often see other aircraft. On a couple of occasions they sighted a passenger plane of the Argentinian national line, and they saw several small machines with civil markings. Once they saw three military machines of an American type flying in formation at high altitude but the pilots were either not concerned with them, or did not see them, for they made no move in the direction of the Gosling.

Neither Biggles nor Ginger said anything, but each knew what the other was thinking. Long silences made it clear that hopes of finding the objective were fading. Anything like enthusiasm had become mere labour. They rendezvoused another couple of times with the flying-boat, now painted with the meaningless S.K marks, to refuel and resupply. Algy and Bertie complained that the whole business was, as Bertie put it, getting more than a bit of a bind, but no one had as yet mentioned failure. At least the weather remained fair, with no sign of the fogs and storms that the American pilot had mentioned to Biggles and Ginger. However, the air had become progressively cooler as they moved south, and the vegetation changed to the grass of the pampas. Trees became uncommon, and they began to see the sheep flocks that Carruthers had mentioned, as well as cattle. They also saw something of the typical wildlife of the South American _pampas_: those ostrich-like flightless birds known as rheas, and _vacunas_, the wild cousins of the domesticated _llama_.

Biggles and Ginger had now worked their way within striking distance of the city of San Julian, and Biggles privately decided that when they had examined the area to the south, as far as Rio Gallegos, he would head back to Buenos Aires, make a negative report to Air Commodore Raymond through the British Embassy, and request permission to return home. While it was galling to admit defeat there seemed little else that could usefully be done, and while Biggles had complete confidence in Angus' ability to deal with any situation that might arise in his absence he had become anxious to rejoin the rest of the squadron in England.


	5. Bad luck for Biggles

**Chapter 5**

**Bad luck for Biggles**

Biggles had appointed a final rendezvous with Algy and Bertie at a little cove not far north of Puerto Guano. It may be said at the outset that the Gosling did not keep this appointment, due to a series of misfortunes such as to defy belief. Biggles and Ginger first met trouble, on the morning of the day preceding that appointed for the rendezvous, from a cause which, while fortunately not common, has happened more often than is generally realised, and is a regular hazard over a particular type of country in certain parts of the world. In quite a few cases the result has been fatal for the aircraft and its crew. In a word, they were in collision with a bird.

Collisions with smaller birds that congregate in numbers, such as seagulls, are such a constant menace on certain stations, notably marine airports, that all sorts of devices have been adopted to deal with the problem, from firing Very lights to the flying of specially trained birds of prey. The ancient sport of falconry, revived on some R.A.F. aerodromes, has done something to reduce the danger by scattering the offending birds when an aircraft is asking for permission to come in.

Naturally, the bigger the bird the more serious is the result of the collision, for which reason this particular type of accident has occurred most frequently with serious results over mountain regions overseas where eagles, condors, vultures and the like, are commonly to be found. The northern frontiers of India, Iraq and Pakistan, have bad records, both civil and military machines having been victims. Aircraft have been brought down over the Andes and the Atlas Mountains of North Africa. There has been more than one fatal accident over the European Alps. It is not unlikely that some of the unsolved "mystery" accidents have been due to this same unpredictable factor, for which no pilot or his aircraft can be blamed. It is a flying risk that must be accepted in the same way that ships are exposed to dangers which neither seamanship nor scientific instruments have been able to eliminate entirely. No matter how wakeful an airman may be, all he can do to minimise the risk is by taking evasive action if he sees the bird in time. He does not always see it, nor can he be expected to see it if it is hovering in the sun well above him. Even if he does see it he may not be able to escape the bird if it attacks him, for the creature is in its element and he is not.

The question of how far the se accidents have been the result of a deliberate attack has often been argued. The most feasible explanation is that it happens both ways. But there certainly have been occasions when big predatory birds have made an unprovoked onslaught on what they may regard as an intruder in their own particular domain. Surviving pilots have stated this. A bird, apparently, has not the sagacity to realise that, no matter what may happen to the aircraft, it must itself be killed - as it always is.

As far as the aircraft is concerned the result of such an encounter must, of course, depend on where it is struck; but it must be obvious that a weight of perhaps twenty pounds, travelling at high speed in the opposite direction, is bound to cause damage no matter where it may strike. Light planes have had a wing knocked clean off. Fabric coverings have been torn to pieces and wooden airscrews have been shattered. Even large machines have had a main spar fractured. Radiators have been holed. In every case the bird was smashed to pulp.

The condor that resented the intrusion of Biggles' Gosling came at him out of the blue. Biggles was taken completely by surprise, for as he later freely admitted to Ginger, he was under the impression that condors were strictly creatures of the mountains and was unaware that they routinely fly between their haunts in the Cordillera and the coast in search of food. He saw the bird a split second before it struck. There was no time to do anything. A black mass blotted out his view. Almost simultaneously there was a tremendous crash and the windscreen was smothered by a sticky mass of blood and feathers. Biggles realised instantly what had happened. Shouting for Ginger, who was in the cabin, he slipped quickly into the second pilot's seat, the forward view from his own being practically obliterated. It was not much better from the new position. Air pressure soon removed most of the feathers, but the blood appeared to be congealed, and the feathers that remained, some with pieces of flesh adhering, looked like sticking to it. He throttled back to little more than a glide until the extent of the damage could be ascertained.

came scrambling into the darkened cockpit. He took one look and gasped: "Crikey! What a mess!"

Almost immediately, one of the engines cut out dead. Then as quickly as it had stopped, the engine sprang to life again. Twice the engine cut out, and each time it picked up again. Another brief interval, and it went for the third and last time.

"I shall have to go down," decided Biggles. "I daren't risk going on. What's below us? Have a look. I can't see anything from here. Buck up!"

The decision Biggles made was prompted by the fact that their presence at any regulation airport was likely to be promptly reported to von Stalhein. In other circumstances he would no doubt have tried to reach the nearest airport, at San Julian. He was relieved to find the machine still airborne with the controls unaffected. It might have been worse, much worse. He had at least been given time to think.

Ginger came back.

"Keep her going!" he exclaimed. "Keep going just as you are. We're in luck. You've a long straight beach straight ahead."

Biggles went on down, peering through one of the small clear spaces in the perspex. He could see a wide bay some distance ahead.

"Keep her straight," commanded Ginger. "You're doing fine. You've miles of room. I can't see anything in the way."

In a long flying career Biggles had made many anxious landings. He had made landings in even more risky places, but not being able to see clearly was the trouble; otherwise, as he remarked when they were on the ground, the thing would have been simple, notwithstanding that only one engine was functioning. As it was, he could see through the side windows but not in the direction in which he was travelling. Ginger did all that was possible in the way of a running commentary.

"You're doing fine," he kept saying, encouragingly. "Starboard a little ... little more ... Okay. Hold her there. You're at a hundred feet for a guess. All clear ahead. Nearly there. Steady!"

Biggles eased the control column back gently. The machine began to sink.

"Now!" yelled Ginger.

Biggles flattened out, a few feet too high, judging from the bump he took when the machine touched down. Another small bump or too and the Gosling rumbled slowly to a standstill. Biggles closed his eyes, shook his head, and passed a hand over his face.

"All right," he said quickly, pulling himself together. "Let's get down and see the extent of the mischief. Where did that infernal bird come from? Did you see it?"

"Not until it was right on top of us. It seemed to fly straight into us."

The examination of the aircraft did not take long. Luckily, no real damage had been done, but it could have been much more serious. The sticky mess of gore on the windscreen was nothing. That could soon be cleaned off. Unfortunately, however, the bulk of the bird, the entrails, sinews and talons, after glancing off the perspex, had jammed one of the air intakes. It was this blockage that had caused the engine to cut out as the Gosling landed. Apart from that there was little to worry about. The condor's curved beak had gashed the leading edge of the centre section. That, too, could be put right, although it might take a little time.

Grimacing with disgust Biggles removed the bulk of the pulverised carcass from the air intake. "It'll take a little while to clean this up so the sooner we get cracking the better," he announced.

Although the work to be done appeared to offer no great difficulty, and would, in fact, have been a simple matter at a maintenance unit where every sort of repair equipment was available, it was soon clear that, without such facilities, it would take some time. They worked all the morning, Biggles on meticulously clearing out the air intake and Ginger on the centre-section, stopping occasionally to scan the landscape for possible visitors. None came.

It was midday by the time Biggles was satisfied that they had at least done all that was possible. He made a test by running up the engines, and was well pleased to find that, as far as could be ascertained, everything was in order.

"Are we pushing off right away?" asked Ginger.

"Yes," answered Biggles. "But we've no hope of making the rendezvous by tomorrow morning. Given that, I don't see any need to hurry. We'll keep on with our survey work, and catch up with Algy and Bertie the day after tomorrow. They know not to wait around for us if we're late, but to come back twenty-four hours later."

Biggles and Ginger encountered their second piece of bad luck on the morning of the next day. The sun was shining from a cloudless blue sky when the Gosling took off to continue its southward journey, but it had been in the air for less than an hour when a wraith of white mist enveloped the machine with a clammy embrace and blotted out the landscape. The noise of the engines faded suddenly as Biggles throttled back to lose height, and then sprang to life again as they sank through the vapour and the ground once more appeared below. From east to west, straight across their path, lay a dark, uniform indigo belt that could only mean rain, and heavy rain at that. Land and sea, at a distance of a mile or more, were swallowed up in gloom. Then, as so often happens in such conditions, the moisture-laden sky above began to close down on them. Twice within five minutes the machine was enveloped in opaque mist, so thick that the wing tips were lost in it and each time the pilot was compelled to lose height in order to keep the ground in sight. Then a sharp spatter of rain struck them, it formed into curious little globules on the metal skin of the wings, tiny beads of moisture that danced towards the trailing edge and then disappeared into space.

Visibility quickly grew worse until Biggles could only just see the ground from a hundred feet, so thick was it that at times it was difficult to see whether land or see lay below. He pushed his stick forward a trifle, staring down, and saw that they were passing over a little natural creek. The water in it was smooth, for the storm had not yet had time to beat up a big sea, and he made up his mind with the promptness of long experience. The roar of the engines ceased abruptly; the machine tilted in a swift "S" turn, sideslipped, flattened out, and cut a creamy wake across the smooth water of the creek.

"And that's that," observed Ginger philosophically, as the machine ran to a standstill.

"As you say, that's that," agreed Biggles, unfastening the strap of his safety belt. "And I don't mind telling you that I'm not sorry to be on the carpet. Did you ever see visibility cut right out like that in your life?"

"Never."

"Nor I. Well, we're down and that's something," went on Biggles.

"What are we going to do?"

"Taxi along this creek until we find a sheltered place to moor up, and then fix a spot of tea. One thing I'm not going to do is take off again in this soup. My goodness, hark at the rain."

"If it keeps on it looks as if we're here for the day."

"We are as far as I'm concerned," declared Biggles, as he opened the throttle and began taxiing along the low, bleak shore. "Fog is the dickens. Here we are, what about this?"

At the spot indicated, a short, narrow arm of the creek felt its way through wire-grass and sandhills that arose here and there from a swampy reed-covered plain.

"Do as well as anywhere," agreed Ginger. "Go ahead, taxi right in and beach her here. I'll get out and have a look around."

He jumped ashore on firm sand and ran to the top of the nearest sandhill. He was back again in a moment. "Nothing," he said, "Not a blooming thing in sight, although I can't see more than a hundred yards, if it comes to that."

"Well, come back in and let's have some tea; maybe the clouds will lift again presently."

In this hope they were doomed to disappointment, however, for several hours later, although the rain had stopped, the air was still thick with mist and visibility practically nil. Biggles looked at his watch, and turned to Ginger. "You realise what the first result of this will be?"

"No - what?"

"While this fog lasts we're tied to the carpet. If we don't turn up at the rendezvous in the morning, the next thing we shall have will be Algy and Bertie on the prowl, looking for us."

"That'll be a lot of use if we're blanketed in murk," said Ginger bitterly. "They won't be able to find us even if they come looking when we don't turn up. Curse the fog."

"Unfortunately, cursing it won't shift it," returned Biggles evenly. "It might lift at daylight, and we'll be able to get off then."

"At least we're not far from the objective," he continued, looking at the map. "This creek must be part of the estuary of the Coig River, which looks to be only a hundred or so miles from the place where we're meeting up with Algy and Bertie. The map indicates that the river breaks up into a lot of little channels when it gets to the sea."

Following this exchange there was a long spell of silence in which Biggles went outside and lowered his stock of cigarettes. Finally, he returned to the cabin and announced, "We may as well have something to eat and get some shut-eye. We'll sleep in the machine tonight."

Biggles was up not long after dawn, to discover with a shock that the land was still shrouded in white, opaque mist, that reduced visibility to zero. It was chilly, too, so he lost no time in putting the kettle on for a hot drink. However, to Biggles' satisfaction, quite suddenly the mist began to lift, thinning as it rose. A shaft of watery sunshine struck through it; an area of pale blue sky appeared, and like magic the air was clear except for a few swiftly dispersing clouds. He poked Ginger, who was still asleep, in the ribs. "It's daylight. Time to get moving."

At first Ginger merely groaned and snuggled further into his blankets, grumbling at the cold. Then he abruptly sat up and exclaimed, "Hark! What's that?"

From the distance, growing in volume every moment, came a rushing noise, as of an approaching hurricane.

"Geese, I should say," answered Biggles. "Geese or swans - or both."

And even as he spoke, with a tremendous clamour the birds began to pass low overhead. How many there were could not even remotely be guessed, for the swishing of wings lasted for several minutes. The sky was black with them.

Biggles lit a cigarette, and commented irritably, "I wonder how long this goes on? It looks as if we shall have confine our flying activities to the hours when a lot of perishing birds don't want to occupy the atmosphere. An aircraft might as well fly into a brick wall as into heavyweight poultry on this scale. The last thing we need is another collision with a bird."

More geese went over, the leader honking loudly. There were flights of other birds, too - swans, ducks and buff-necked ibis, whose characteristic melancholy cries they had heard before on their flight south. There must have hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of birds. It was certainly an unforgettable natural spectacle, and the noise of beating wings was deafening.

After half an hour or so the flighting ceased, and Biggles moved towards the cockpit. "Let's get mobile," he announced. "What the dickens was that?" he went on in alarm, as the machine gave a sudden lurch. He put his head out of the cabin window and frowned. "We're a nice pair of fools," he observed bitterly. "Well, that settles it, anyway; we're here for the rest of the morning now without any argument."

"Why, what is it?"

"The tide's gone out while we were gaping at those birds and left us high and dry; even if we could get our wheels down there isn't room to turn."


	6. Biggles meets an old friend

**Chapter 6**

**Biggles meets an old friend**

To Ginger, the whole business was beginning to take on the character of a nightmare. "Strewth! Talk about bad luck," he muttered despondently. "I'm starting to think I'm going to spend the rest of my life on this blinking sandbank. I'm getting to the state where I could throw myself down and burst into tears - like a little girl who's lost her bag of sweets."

"Quit moaning, or you'll have me in tears in a minute," requested Biggles. "Let me think."

"Just a minute," he went on in a changed tone. "We'll drop in on O'Neilson, that chap at Vicuna that Carruthers mentioned to us. Carruthers said he had a decent radio transmitter. We could use it to get in touch with the Falklands, and let Algy and Bertie know what's going on. I'd almost forgotten about the fellow, but we should have a word with him anyway. There's just a chance that he, being both a pilot and an ex-Intelligence officer, may have noticed something that could help us."

Shortly after midday the full tide floated the Gosling off the sand and it took off, heading south for Vicuna. In not much more than half an hour's flying time the objective was in sight, and Biggles throttled back and began a long glide towards it. On reaching it, he circled it twice before lowering his undercarriage and making preparations to land.

There were two hangars, on the roof of each of which was painted, in block letters six feet high, the words "British & Imperial Pastoral Company". Adjacent to the hangars were a small square building with a tall radio mast, and a couple of other buildings of uncertain purpose. At little distance from the hangars were several large bungalows surrounded by clumps of trees and cultivated gardens, and further away was a cluster of smaller houses set out in the manner of a village. To the south of the airstrip was a massive complex of stockyards, shearing sheds, and the like. A flock of sheep were being moved into the yards by half a dozen men dressed as typical _gauchos_. They looked up as the Gosling flew low overhead, but continued on with their work. Two roads led away from the little settlement; one to the west, which presumably connected to the main highway running north-south down the Argentinian coast; and the other to the east, towards the sea, which appeared to be no more than a couple of miles away. The roads, although unmade, appeared to be in good condition, and the whole place had an air of prosperity and order.

"This looks to be a pretty big place," commented Ginger, with some surprise. "It's practically a small town."

"I would expect it to be. There's probably more than a million sheep on this property," replied Biggles. "After all, it is the headquarters of one of the biggest pastoral outfits in South America. I imagine that there are quite a number of employees stationed here, apart from O'Neilson."

A Dragon Moth was parked just outside one of the hangars, and a couple of mechanics wearing overalls appeared to be giving it a top overhaul. They stopped work and stood staring upward as Gosling came in to land. They were joined by another man who came out of the radio building. Biggles dropped his wheels, put the machine down, and taxied right up to the little group that stood watching.

Standing slightly in front of the two mechanics was the man who had come from the radio building. He was a small, slim, keen-faced, sun-burned fellow whose most outstanding features were a head of close-clipped red hair, and bright, almost brilliant blue eyes. Their colour may have been emphasised by the hair, but Ginger thought he had never seen eyes so piercingly blue. At the sight of Biggles he flashed a smile of instant recognition.

"Well, by the sainted turnbuckle of Saint Patrick, if it isn't Pat O'Neilson! Hullo, Pat!" exclaimed Biggles.

"Hullo Biggles! What brings you to this part of the world? I'd heard you'd gone back into the Service," replied O'Neilson.

Biggles glanced swiftly at the mechanics, who were still standing idly by watching proceedings, and answered loudly. "Who told you that?"

"Sandy Macaster. I ran into him one day in Sandiago - oh, it must have been the best part of twelve months ago."

Biggles made a gesture of disdain. "Oh, Sandy. He always did get things tangled up. I've no intention of aviating aircraft decorated with the red-white-and-blue target. At the moment I'm beetling down the coast of Argentina doing photographic reconnaissance work for an oil exploration outfit. This is Ginger Hebblethwaite, a young protege of mine. Tell me, how long have you been out here?"

"Since 1936. I chucked in the Intelligence business when my health gave out. I had a spell in the London Hospital for Tropical Diseases and the doctors told me to keep out of hot climates. I drifted around for a while, and then came out here to visit a cousin and landed this job. I got married last year, to an Argentinian girl," replied O'Neilson. "I'll introduce you to my wife, Consuelo. You'll join us for lunch, won't you?"

"Would it be possible to have my machine refuelled first?" questioned Biggles. "We've got less than a quarter of a tank left."

"Of course," replied O'Neilson. "I'll give instructions for it to be done straight away."

He spoke briefly to the mechanics in Spanish. Turning back to Biggles, he continued, "It's good to see you again, Biggles. Although there's quite a British colony here, we don't often get visitors from England. As a matter of fact, you were lucky to catch me. I've been away for a week, flying a couple of the directors who were out from England around the country to inspect my firm's various properties, and then back to Buenos Aires. I only came back home a couple of days ago - I just missed that nasty storm. Did you get caught up in it? I imagine it was solid fog from the Coig River to San Julian. Everybody's talking about you, of course."

Biggles threw a sideways glance at Ginger. "Really! What do you mean?"

"Oh, people have been asked to look out for two British airmen in an American Gosling amphibian. I was told you had headed south, and hadn't landed anywhere along the coast, so there were concerns you might have run into difficulties. Anyone seeing the machine was requested to let the authorities know," was the casual reply. "I sent off a message as soon as I recognised your machine."

Biggles frowned. Observing that the mechanics were now busy refuelling the Gosling, he spoke quietly to O'Neilson. "I'd rather you hadn't sent that signal. Is there a place where we can talk confidentially?"

"Yes, come on over to the house," was the slightly puzzled reply.

O'Neilson led them towards the nearest of the bungalows - a long, low, rambling white-painted building - through some attractive gardens. Ginger recognised many familiar English plants but others he had never seen before. There were fruit trees, too, some of the commoner sorts, and others unknown to Ginger. However, the whole effect was delightful. It was also clear, when they reached the bungalow, that some trouble and expense had been taken to make the large reception room into which O'Neilson showed them really attractive. The room was furnished in simple but impressive style, some fine old mahogany in the Spanish style being much in evidence, and yet the apartment had a cosy, lived-in appearance. Everything was beautifully kept, and a huge vase of white flowers made a spectacular display on an old polished chest which reflected their pristine beauty. A grand piano occupied a corner of the room.

"Sit down and make yourselves comfortable," invited O'Neilson, pushing forward a box of cigarettes.

"You seem to do yourself very well here, if I may say so," murmured Biggles, looking about him appreciatively as he settled himself in his seat and took a cigarette.

"It's all Consuelo's doing. She's a wizard! She can cook, too," declared O'Neilson enthusiastically. "Hebblethwaite, you're too young to think seriously of marriage, but what about you, Biggles? Isn't it time you packed up chasing yourself around the globe and settled down?"

He continued slyly. "I could introduce you to Consuelo's sister."

Before the conversation could go any further in this direction, a tall, dark and strikingly handsome young woman entered the room. The necessary introductions were performed, and Mrs O'Neilson, in charmingly-accented although limited English, repeated her husband's invitation to lunch. Biggles expressed himself to be delighted to accept, whereupon Mrs O'Neilson excused herself from the company to attend to the preparations for the meal.

As soon as she had left the room, Biggles turned to O'Neilson and said, quietly, "I'm going to take you into my confidence, Pat, knowing that you'll respect it, even if you're not able to help me. The truth of the matter is, Hebblethwaite and I are here as British agents, on a special mission."

"I think you'd better tell me the whole story," suggested O'Neilson.

"Certainly," answered Biggles willingly, and he related the reason for their being in Argentina, and the events that had occurred since their arrival in Buenos Aires. He spoke succinctly, but without omitting any relevant detail. He concluded by saying, "My biggest worry is that since there was no-one on the spot to meet him this morning, Algy will get into a flap. You've been good enough to fill up our tanks for us so we don't need to rendezvous with the flying-boat, but you know Algy; if we're not there to send him home he's likely to go on to Buenos Aires. I need to get a message through to him to stand by for further orders - but this is an awkward situation. The Argentinians are obviously looking out for us, and I wager they'd be delighted to get the chance to cause a diplomatic row. You could get caught up in it, and I should hate to see you lose your job through trying to help us."

"Rot! Never mind about that; we're bound to stick to each other," replied O'Neilson. "If one Britisher can't help another in a case like this, it's a poor show. You write out your message and I'll see that it's transmitted right away. Are you using code?"

"No," Biggles shook his head. "I wouldn't risk carrying the British code book around with me. I imagine the Nazi government would be only too pleased to pay a million pounds for our latest secret code at the moment. I'll get Ginger to send the message, if that's all right with you. The fewer people who know about this the better - and your staff are bound to talk. Ginger, do you mind slipping back to the airstrip and using O'Neilson's radio to send a message through to the Falklands? Just let Algy and Bertie know to stand by for further orders. At this stage I feel inclined to keep on. We'll look around a bit more, and then come back here for another lot of fuel. We can work out our next step from there."

"Okay, chief," responded Ginger obediently, getting up.

"Thanks, Ginger," acknowledged Biggles. "Keep it short and sweet; unfriendly ears may be listening. No chatter."

"By the way, how much fuel do you keep here?" asked Biggles casually as Ginger left the room, lighting another cigarette.

"I always keep at least a thousand gallons on hand, most of it in drums and some in four gallon tins," was the reply. "I'm planning to get a proper underground tank installed soon."

Biggles looked surprised. "That's a lot of petrol."

"Not really. I do quite a lot of flying. We have a crack team of shearers here - I fly them around the different properties in the shearing season. The Company's chief engineer and veterinary surgeon are based here as well, and I run them around a bit. I've got a Gypsy Moth for that sort of thing, as well as the Dragon. This is quite a good job, you know - better than aviating a lot of ham-fisted pupils through London fogs! And it's no trouble to get petrol here in bulk, as most of our supplies come by coastal steamer. You might have seen the road running east? It goes to the company's jetty."

"Could a marine aircraft land there?"

"Easily. There's plenty of room to get down, and the jetty is in a nice protected little bay."

"By jingo, Pat, you're a useful fellow," declared Biggles. "It's handy to know that Algy could land not far from here if it was necessary. Now, tell me if you've noticed any unusual activity in the air around here lately. From what I've seen and heard, there's not much aviation in this part of the world, so anything out of the ordinary could put us on the trail of the diamonds."

O'Neilson shook his head. "I've seen nothing unusual. You're right; there isn't much aviation around here, particularly since the Aeronavale pushed off from Puerto Guano a few months ago. I see a few small machines around from time to time, but I know them all – they're mostly members of the aero club at San Julian. The only machine that I see regularly is the Dragon Moth that does the mail run from San Julian down to Rio Grande, but it can't have anything to do with this diamond smuggling business. There's been a machine on that run for as long as I've been here."

"No doubt you're right," agreed Biggles. "From what you say it's not likely that the Dragon Moth is what we're looking for."

"By a bit of a coincidence, that Dragon Moth is the twin of the machine I use," continued O'Neilson. "They were both imported by a charter company which went broke about six months ago. I picked up one of them, and the Argentine Air Ministry bought the other. Being imported at the same time, they've got serial registration numbers. Mine's AL-HRU, and the other one is AL-HRV. People are always getting them confused if they happen to be on the tarmac at San Julian at the same time."

"I suppose the machine must cause a bit of confusion here as well from time to time - it must come pretty close to Vicuna on its way to Puerto Guano."

"No, I don't believe it has, as a matter of fact. Certainly, I've never seen it near here. But I know it gets into Puerto Guano on Thursday afternoons. We often send a truck down to Puerto Guano on a Friday to pick up any mail, and a few supplies."

"That's odd," remarked Biggles. "The Dragon Moth leaves San Julian on Thursday morning but doesn't get to Puerto Guano until Thursday afternoon. It shouldn't take all day to fly from San Julian to Puerto Guano."

O'Neilson shrugged. "I haven't thought about it. I know the machine stops off at Santa Cruz, which is roughly half-way between San Julian and Puerto Guano. You know Latin Americans, or you should by now. Although the climate down here doesn't justify a siesta in the afternoon, they'll take one if they get the chance. I assume the pilot takes a long break for lunch and a nap afterwards."

"But is the pilot an Argentinian?"

"I don't know. The Air Ministry put a new man on when they got the Dragon Moth. I don't even know his name. He's a surly fellow. I've tried a couple of times to get into conversation with him. Come to think of it, I don't think he is Argentinian. Certainly not a native-born Argentinian."

"Could he be a German?"

O'Neilson looked startled. "Yes, judging b y his appearance and the way he speaks Spanish, I believe he could be," he replied.

Biggles sat for a minute, watching the grey thread of smoke that rose from his cigarette to the ceiling. Then he said pensively, "It seems to take a deuce of a long time for that Dragon Moth to make a flight of not much more than five hundred miles. It also seems that it doesn't fly a straight course, either, or it would pass somewhere near here, and you would have seen or heard it. It's possible that when it leaves San Julian, it goes somewhere else and picks up a load of diamonds before landing at Puerto Guano. If the machine is flown by a German ... well, I should say that's pretty much conclusive evidence that something fishy is going on. And the fellow who's in charge of the German operation is a cunning blighter. It would be like him to come up with a stunt like this to hide what he's doing."

"There's something else, Biggles, that comes into the picture," said O'Neilson eagerly. "What goes on at Puerto Guano is nobody's business."

"What does go on?" inquired Biggles, stubbing his cigarette.

"I don't know," replied O\rquote Neilson. "I've landed there twice in the past four months, and I got the feeling that I wasn't welcome. All I know is, there's something going on. You know how it is in these tinpot little places in Latin America: you can smell something in the atmosphere but it's hard to put your finger on it. You get a feeling that everyone's lying and you don't know who to trust. But I must say that no one has interfered with me and until now I've been content to leave things that way. As you know, I've got a wife to support these days, and we're hoping to start a family soon."

"By thunder, it looks like something's cooking at Puerto Guano, and something with a nasty smell at that," declared Biggles. "I think we'll push off straight after lunch and have a look at the place. I'll come back and let you know if we find anything. I'll need to use your radio, anyway, to give Algy the gen."

At this point Ginger returned, and told Biggles that he had sent a brief message to the Falklands and received an acknowledgment. Almost immediately afterwards, a servant appeared to inform them that lunch was served. Biggles and Ginger followed O'Neilson out of the room into an adjoining one, furnished as a dining room, where lunch had been laid for four on a handsome old carved table. Mrs O'Neilson was waiting for them, with a welcoming smile.

Lunch was a pleasant affair. The food was excellent, and the conversation, conducted in both English and Spanish, was lively. While Biggles was impatient to be going, it was after three o'clock before he finished his coffee. As soon as he could politely do so, he thanked his hosts for their hospitality, promised to return within a couple of days, and rose to his feet. A few minutes later the Gosling's engines split the silence with their powerful bellow, which faded away to a rhythmic murmur as the pilot throttled back to allow them to warm up. For a moment they sat thus, then Biggles thrust the throttle open and the Gosling swept across the aerodrome, leaving a swirling trail of dust in its wake.


	7. What happened to Algy

**Chapter 7 **

**What happened to Algy**

Apart from the gruelling monotony of the passage, Algy's flight from the Falklands to the Argentinian coast to meet Biggles and Ginger at the appointed rendezvous some distance north of Puerto Guano was uneventful. He flew through a world of sea and sky - and nothing else. Dawn had just broken by the time the flying-boat left the water, flooding the atmosphere with pink, gold, and the translucent hues of mother-of-pearl. Soon, however, the sun rose higher, and the sky became a mighty dome of blue, steely ultramarine overhead, fading to pale azure at the horizon which, seeming to rise to his own level, created an impression that he was flying rim to rim across a colossal basin. Not for over three hours did any mark, large or small, break the pristine purity of the azure world through which he flew. From his altitude of five thousand feet the south Atlantic ocean appeared as a featureless dark blue carpet. Bertie, sitting beside him, was silent until the dark line of the Argentinian coast came into sight, and then his only comment was, "Dashed hard work, this roaring to and fro across all those miles of drink."

Algy nodded agreement and declared, "I'm heartily sick of the sight of the Atlantic Ocean, or any other ocean."

Having reaching the coast, Algy turned north and throttled back. Flying as he was by dead reckoning, and knowing that it is one thing to look at a map, but a different thing altogether when one is faced with the same thing in reality, he had deliberately chosen to make his landfall a little south of the objective. Thus, by turning north he was certain to cross it. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the little cove chosen for the rendezvous came into sight. Algy made two uneventful circuits, flying low, and then nosed down to what proved to be a comfortable mooring. Less than five minutes later the big flying-boat was safely anchored close inshore. The Gosling was not - as Algy and Bertie had expected it to be - waiting for them, but this did not worry them unduly. However, as the minutes passed they became conscious of an uneasiness which presently turned to anxiety.

"Are we going to stay here all day?" queried Bertie.

"No," decided Algy. "You know what a stickler Biggles is for orders. He said to push off if he was more than an hour late. If he came here and found us still here he'd have a few short sharp words to say about it. We'll give him a bit longer." Algy looked at his watch. "If he isn't here in, say, fifteen minutes, we'll go."

Twenty minutes later the flying-boat was in the air, heading east on its return journey to the Falklands.

When there was still no sign of the Gosling when they returned to the little cove the next morning, both Algy and Bertie began to get really alarmed. They sat in the machine in silence, making an anxious reconnaissance of the sky. Bertie, who was sitting by the radio, began to polish his eyeglass furiously as if he proposed to rub a hole through it.

By eleven o' clock the failure of the Gosling to appear put Algy in what is commonly called a quandary. On the one hand, he would have liked to start an immediate search for the Gosling. On the other, he remembered that Biggles had abjured him not to panic if the Gosling missed a rendezvous. He scanned the sky to the north anxiously for the last time, and then turned to Bertie.

"Okay," he announced. "Something's gone wrong. The question is - what do we do about it? I'd like to go scouting for the Gosling but I don't think we should just yet. You know how anxious Biggles was about anyone seeing the flying-boat and making a stink about a British military aircraft operating in Argentinian airspace. So this is what I propose - unless you can think of a better plan. We'll unload all the stores and I shall stay behind, in case the Gosling turns up. Biggles and Ginger are bound to come here, to try to make contact with us. Anyway, as soon as I hear their engines, I'll light a smudge fire to attract their attention. You can push off back to the Falklands and come back here tomorrow. If Biggles and Ginger haven't shown up by then or sent us a radio message, we must assume that they're down somewhere and we'll start looking for them - stink or no stink."

"I say, old boy, that doesn't sound much of a plan to me," protested Bertie.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Well, there isn't any plan at all. It's too simple - if you get what I mean."

"The simplicity is probably the best thing about it," Algy declared. "The more involved the scheme the easiest it is to go wrong. I've heard Biggles say that a score of times."

"Too true, too true," murmured Bertie. "No plan could be simpler than yours, old boy."

Algy ignored the thrust. "If you've got nothing more to say, let's get cracking."

Unloading the petrol and stores did not take long. They were hastily concealed amongst some low scrub that grew nearly to the line of the high water mark, and then Bertie took his place in the cockpit of the flying-boat. Algy watched him taxi into position and race in a smother of foam towards the open sea, and then occupied himself for a while gathering dry brushwood for the smudge fire. Then he ate a frugal snack of biscuits and bully beef, more to kill time than because he was hungry. The food tasted like sawdust.

For a while Algy paced up and down restlessly, his eyes constantly on the sky. Then he re-arranged the sticks he had collected for the smudge fire. Finally, as the afternoon began to fade, he decided to relieve his anxiety by exploring his surroundings. He wandered along the beach to the north end of the cove, where a shallow channel ran sluggishly into the sea. Rather than get his feet wet, he preferred to make his way for a little way along the bank. A large rock barred his way; he scrambled over it and then jumped lightly on the sand at the base. As he landed there was an unpleasant squelch and he sank into the sand over the ankles. At the same time the ground seemed to quiver and press tightly around his feet. Even so, it was not until he went to take a pace forward that he realised that he was in the grip of a quicksand.

He perceived afterwards that, had he stood still, even for a few seconds, when first he stepped on the sand, he would certainly have died the most dreadful of all deaths; but fortunately, only a barely perceptible instant elapsed before the time he jumped down and the time he started to move on, to discover that his feet were held fast. To say that he "discovered" this may not be the literal truth. There was no time to discover anything, for instantly he began to fall forward, as was inevitable in the circumstances.

Even as he fell, the thought, "quicksands", flashed through his brain, but the frantic grab that he made at an overhanging shrub was purely instinctive.

He managed to catch hold of it and hang on. For a few desperate seconds, as he began to haul on the branch round which his fingers had closed, it was touch and go whether it would stand the strain, or break and precipitate him bodily into a death-trap; but it held, and the crisis passing as his feet began to emerge from the treacherous sand, it was only a matter of another second before he lay gasping on the rock and not a little shaken.

For a little while he sat regarding the innocent looking little creek with cold, hostile eyes and bitterly regretting his decision to take a little exercise. Then, drawing a deep breath, he prepared to return to his original position. His mood did not improve when he narrowly avoided stepping on a little brown snake that lay curled up on the sand. It reared, hissing, and Algy side-stepped and ran for his life. Actually, at the moment he was more concerned with the sound that his ears had just caught - the purr, still distant, of an aircraft to the north - than with wild beasts.

To his surprise, the machine seemed to be passing to the west rather than heading for the rendezvous point, so he lost no time in putting a match to the fire that he had prepared and almost immediately had the satisfaction of seeing a thin pillar of white smoke coil upwards. Expecting it to be soon observed, and the machine to arrive over the spot, Algy busied himself for a moment with feeding more fuel to the fire. Then he heard another sound, one which caused him to stare upwards in alarm. Above the subdued hum of the Gosling's twin engines came the sound of another engine, and the scream of wind torn wings that told a story of terrific speed. He saw the Gosling at once, heading steadily south at a moderate altitude, clearly unaware of its danger. Behind it, dropping out of the eye of the sun like a winged bullet, was another machine. Even at that distance Algy had no difficulty in recognising it as a Messerschmitt 109. Breathless, he stood still and watched. There was nothing he could do, absolutely nothing. Except watch. And as he watched he realised that the end was a forgone conclusion, for the Gosling, flying serenely along, was a mark that not even a novice at the game could miss.

In a sort of numb stupor he watched the pilot of the Messerschmitt 109 half pull out of his dive, swing round on the tail of the amphibian, and align his sights on the target. Indeed, so intense was the moment that he could almost feel him doing it.

At that particular instant the amphibian turned. It was only a slight movement, but it was enough to disconcert the pilot of the Messerschmitt 109, who, at the same time, opened fire.

Algy felt a cold perspiration break out on his face as the Gosling swerved sickeningly. Whether or not the movement was accidental or deliberate he did not know, but when he saw the nose soar skyward and the machine swing around in a tight Immelmann turn, he knew that whoever was at the co ntrols had not been hit, for the manoeuvre was one that could only be performed by a machine under perfect control.

Again the Messerschmitt 109 fired, and again the amphibian twisted like a snipe as the pilot strove to spoil the other's aim. And for a moment it seemed to Algy that he succeeded, although he knew quite well that such an unequal combat could not be prolonged. "Go down!" he roared, well aware of the futility of speech but unable to control himself any longer, for his one concern at this stage was that Biggles and Ginger might save their lives regardless of anything else.

From the behaviour of the Gosling it almost seemed as if the pilot had heard him, for the machine began to zigzag down, at the same time side-slipping, first to left and then to right, in order to lose height. The Messerschmitt 109 was round after it in flash, little tongues of orange flame flickering from the guns concealed in its engine cowling and wings, and streams of tracer bullets cutting white pencil lines across the blue.

With a wild swerve, and with the Messerschmitt 109 in close attendance, the Gosling disappeared from sight behind a high ridge to the south. Then came a sound which, once heard, is never forgotten. It was the splintering crackle of a crashing aeroplane. The distance Algy judged to be not more than four or five miles away. He stood, white-faced, as if frozen to the ground, and a minute or so later saw a coiling cloud of black smoke rise into the air.

Shortly afterwards the Messerschmitt 109 reappeared, circling upwards through the smoke. When it had gained some height, it turned away and disappeared towards the south.

Algy had no recollection of how long he stood staring at the ridge, but suddenly he seemed to come to his senses. He set off at a wild run along the beach in the direction of the hill behind which the machines had disappeared. On reaching the southern end of the little bay where the beach terminated he found that the sand gave way to a rising rocky foreshore on which the scrubby coastal vegetation had only been able to fasten an insecure hold. Through this he could only make slow time, keeping as near to the edge of the cliff as possible. In this manner he covered what must have been several miles. Finally, the cliff ended and Algy scrambled down onto the beach of another small bay, larger than the one on which he had landed, but otherwise precisely the same in appearance. It was as if a giant dredge had grabbed a great lump out of the rock. At the other end a buttress of rock jutted out into the sea, and a faint plume of dark smoke could still be seen rising lazily into the air on the other side. Algy realised that because the tide had begun to ebb it would be possible to get right round the rocks by splashing through the shallow water, and with renewed energy he set off at a fast dogtrot. He was panting heavily by the time that he approached the rocks, and his pace slowed to a walk.

When, with a sinking sensation in his stomach, he rounded the rocks to observe the charred and blacked remains of an aircraft lying on the beach before him not more than fifty feet away, he knew the worst. His eyes probed the burnt-out wreck, looking for two bodies, for experience told him that those in the machine could not have escaped.

He saw, but ignored, a group of uniformed men standing close by. Four of them carried rifles. The other, standing slightly in front, was obviously an officer of superior rank. Algy supposed them to be the local guardia, knowing that in Latin America the police - like most continental police - are armed like soldiers. He vaguely wondered what had brought them to the scene of the crash so quickly, but otherwise he paid little attention to them. He could not take his eyes from what, he knew in his heart, must be the remains of Biggles' and Ginger's funeral pyre. Then he felt two pairs of hands seize him from behind, and a voice spoke.

"And here is the Honourable Algernon Lacey - still scouting for trouble," it said mockingly.

Algy could not see the face of the man who had spoken, but he recognised the voice only too well; it was that of Erich von Stalhein.


	8. Goodbye to the Gosling

**Chapter 8**

**Goodbye to the Gosling **

In spite of his recently acquired knowledge that their enemies were now likely to be aware of their approximate location, nothing was further from Biggles' thoughts than hostile aircraft as he pushed forward the master throttle of the Gosling and soared into the air, heading south and climbing steeply to gain height. As a matter of detail, he was thinking over the possibility that, if the Dragon Moth was the diamond transport, the Gosling might receive a hostile reception at Puerto Guano. As he later remarked, bitterly, to Ginger, the lesson to be drawn from the subsequent events was: "Wherever you are never take it for granted that you've got the sky to yourself." Ginger may be forgiven if he was not thinking about their mission at all, but instead of Jeanette Ducoste. His reverie was broken by Biggles' voice.

"Ginger, listen in to the radio. If you pick up any signals as we come into sight of Puerto Guano, let me know."

Ginger picked up the earphones of the instrument, and began to slowly turn the tuning-in keys. Almost immediately, without the slightest warning, the whole apparatus blew up, or so it seemed to him. There was a tremendous crash and, simultaneously, a sheet of electric blue flame flashed before his eyes, while a smell of scorching filled his nostrils. Temporarily half-stunned with shock, he tore the headphones from his ringing ears, only to be thrown down as the machine heeled over in a vertical bank. A conviction took form in his mind that the aircraft had been struck by lightning, and he glanced across at Biggles, fully prepared to find him unconscious. To his astonishment he found him very much alive, crouching forward, but looking back over his shoulder with a terrible expression on his face. At the same time, above the hum of the engines, Ginger heard for the first time the unmistakable taca-taca-taca-taca of machine guns and, looking back over the tail, saw a Messerschmitt 109. Such was his surprise that for several seconds he could only stare at it unbelievingly. The Gosling began to swerve violently, and without looking he knew that it was going down.

"There's a pretty fair beach," said Biggles tersely. "I'm going down. When you feel me flatten out you'll know I'm practically on the carpet. Get the automatics out of the locker, open the hatch and get ready to jump for it. There\rquote s nothing else you can do."

The Gosling continued to descend, twisting and turning. Ginger was conscious of the sporadic grunting snarl of multiple machine guns. Then the machine levelled out. Biggles shouted "Jump!"

What happened next Ginger really did not know. He had no recollection of getting out of the machine; but he must have done so because he found himself standing on the sand, staring with utter dismay at the crumpled remains of the Gosling a hundred yards or so away further along the beach, just short of the low headland that marked the end of it.

The matter did not end there. With a sinking feeling in his stomach in his stomach Ginger watched the Messerschmitt roar down and rake its now stationary target with a long burst of fire. Then it turned away. Either by accident or design it turned towards the place where Ginger, as if rooted to the ground by horror, was standing in full view. Perceiving his folly, and having a pretty good idea of what to expect, Ginger sprinted up the beach and took cover in a jumbled mass of rocks. Nor did he stop when he reached the rocks, but scrambled through them until he could fling himself flat behind a rock the size of a small car. An instant later, through the rocks came such a shattering hail of metal that he was appalled by the din it made. Chips of stone sprang into the air. One struck the side of Ginger's face, causing a trickle of blood to run down his cheek. Hearing the Messerschmitt roar low overhead, acting under the sheer impulse of self-preservation, he reversed his position to still keep the rock between himself and the aircraft. Again came the withering blast. Ginger knew that the pilot couldn't see him, so apparently he was spraying the whole mass of rocks in the hope of killing him.

The pilot of the Messerschmitt then turned his attention again to the Gosling. He roared round, and diving, lashed it with a hail of fire as though it had done him a personal injury, and this time he was even more successful, for a tongue of flame licked hungrily along the riddled fuselage. In a minute the entire ma chine was a blazing inferno.

The Messerschmitt now made off, either because the pilot had used up all his ammunition or possibly because he thought he had done enough. It circled through the smoke, gaining altitude. Then it turned away and disappeared towards the south. In a few moments it was out of sight. As the noise of its engine receded, Ginger, white and shaken, picked himself up, and in a sort of frenzy raced towards the burning wreck of the Gosling. He was still running, dry-lipped and wild-eyed, when a voice near at hand said: "Where do you think you're going?"

Spinning round with a gasp he saw Biggles sitting on a rock, lighting a cigarette.

"Then he didn't get you after all!" cried Ginger, almost overcome with relief.

"Doesn't look like it, does it?" retorted Biggles.

"How on earth did you get away with it?"

"I jumped out just behind you. By the time our friend in the Messerschmitt could bring his guns to bear, I'd dived into the rocks."

"Same here," said Ginger, with feeling. He found a seat besides Biggles on the rock, for now that reaction had set in his legs were a trifle shaky. He looked at the smoking remains of the Gosling. "What a mess," he muttered. "But there is this about it. Puerto Guano must be the place that von Stalhein is using as a diamond dump, or he wouldn't have been so anxious to stop us having a look at it."

"That's true," agreed Biggles, pensively. "That Messerschmitt turned south, and it may have landed at Puerto Guano."

"Just a minute," said Ginger in a curious voice. "Did you notice the blue nose on that Messerschmitt? I saw a Messerschmitt with a blue nose in Buenos Aires, the morning that we left. I swear it wasn't there the day before, when we arrived."

"By thunder, you're right," replied Biggles. "I remember seeing a Messerschmitt with a blue nose at Buenos Aires."

He thought for a moment, then continued, slowly, "I wonder if that blue-nosed Messerschmitt could be von Stalhein's own kite. He might have flown up to Buenos Aires in it."

Ginger looked startled.

"You mean - he was in that Messerschmitt?"

Biggles shrugged. "He might have been. If Puerto Guano is the diamond dump the mine can't be too far away and that presumably is where von Stalhein is hiding out. The mine must be in radio contact with Buenos Aires. As soon as he knew that the Gosling had been sighted at Vicuna, he could have jumped straight into his machine and come hunting for us. Knowing von Stalhein, I'd hazard a guess that his next move will be to send out a search party to look at us if we're dead, or find us if we're alive. As no corpses are available for inspection, he'll know that we've escaped, in which case he'll soon be after us."

"I only hope that von Stalhein is the first to show up – I've got a little present for him," replied Ginger coldly, producing the two automatics he had taken from the Gosling's locker.

Biggles took one, and glanced at his watch. "It's about four o'clock now. I'd say we've got less than half an hour before the ground party turns up. We can't be any more than five miles from Puerto Guano at the most, and the remains of the Gosling will smoke for hours. They won't have any difficulty fixing our position. We'd better set about finding somewhere to hide until it gets dark. Then we'll strike out west until we hit the road that runs down the coast, and head for Puerto Guano."

Ginger stared. "Puerto Guano? Are you kidding?" Trust Biggles, he thought, to do the unexpected.

A ghost of smile hovered over Biggles' lips. "No. We may be able to pinch a car, and use it to get back to Vicuna. Better still, if there's an aircraft there, we might be able to get our hands on that."

"Okay," agreed Ginger. "Where are we going to hide?"

Biggles looked around. On the other side of the jumble of rocks the ground sloped steeply upwards to a ridge. The slope was covered with the usual sort of coastal vegetation, weeds, shrubs, stunted trees and the like.

"What's wrong with under a nice thick bush? As a hiding place it isn't exactly an original notion, but it's still a good one."

They fixed on a position amongst some scrub on a knoll which commanded a view through a leafy screen of the burn-out wreck of the machine. However, they had been there hardly five minutes when Ginger leapt to his feet with a cry of disgust. He showed Biggles a half dozen flat, grey, crab-shaped insects crawling on his left arm. "What are these revolting things?"

"_Carrapatos,"_ replied Biggles briefly. "Ticks. This place must be infested with them. I didn't know they were a pest this far south. The horrible little brutes hide in the vegetation and drop on any warm blooded creature that's unfortunate enough to pass by. They're poisonous, too. A big tick can kill a dog or make a man pretty sick after a few hours."

He indicated an outcrop of rock a little further along. "We should be all right in amongst those rocks."

Biggles and Ginger were to be glad that the _carrapatos_ had driven them from their original hiding place, for reasons shortly to be explained.

Biggles was right in his prediction that a search party would be sent out to examine the crashed aircraft. The two airmen had no sooner settled into a shallow recess in the rocks when, abruptly, a group of men appeared at the far end of the beach.

"Where the dickens did those fellows come from so suddenly?" exclaimed Ginger.

"I'd say there's a track leading down to the beach, probably made by local people coming here to fish," opined Biggles.

As the party came closer, it could be seen that it comprised five uniformed men. Four carried rifles, and two, to Ginger's surprise, also carried what appeared to be petrol cans. There was no mistaking the tall, lithe, military figure of the leader of the party.

"Argentinian troops," Biggles stated calmly. "Von Stalhein is with them."

"That's dear Erich all right, the dirty hound," snarled Ginger. "How about having a shot at him?"

"No use," said Biggles. "You'd never hit him at that distance. Save your bullets. You may need them before we're home."

Reluctantly, Ginger put his gun away.

As the party approached the burnt-out remains of the Gosling, von Stalhein held up a hand in a peremptory gesture. The men halted. The petrol cans were placed on the sand. At that moment another man appeared, hurrying around the low headland at the north of the beach. He ran straight up to the smouldering wreck of the Gosling, ignoring the little group standing close by. As he reached the wreckage, he staggered backward and flung his hands up in a curious gesture of despair.

Von Stalhein gave an order to his men, inaudible to the watchers, and two of them ran forward and seized the new arrival by the arms. Von Stalhein stepped closer to the captive, and apparently said something to him. The man turned to face him, a few more words appeared to be exchanged, and then handcuffs were placed on the man's wrists.

Biggles turned to Ginger and said, "Tell me, am I imagining things, or does that fellow look uncommonly like Algy?"

"If I wasn't sure it couldn't be Algy I'd say that was him," said Ginger.

Said Biggles, calmly: "Don't let's fool ourselves. It is Algy."

Ginger felt the blood drain from his face. His muscles seemed to go stiff. For a few seconds he could not move. Then, impulsively, he leap to his feet and opened his mouth to shout. With a panther-like bound Biggles sprang at him and bore him to the ground, his hand over his mouth. "Quiet, you young fool," he hissed. "Do you want to get us both killed? We can't take on rifles with automatics at this range."

"But von Stalhein will shoot Algy with no more qualms than if he was a rabbit," protested Ginger.

"I doubt it. He'll use him to bait a trap. He knows by now that if he finds one of us it's only a question of time before the others turn up," muttered Biggles. "This is a case of more haste less speed. We can do nothing but watch - for the moment."

"But how did Algy get here - and where's Bertie?"

"How the devil would I know?" answered Biggles irritably. "Use your head. Maybe Algy stayed at the rendezvous waiting for us to turn up. If he had, he would have seen the Gosling go down. Naturally he'd hot-foot it to the crash."

"If he'd got here ten minutes earlier ..."

"He didn't," rejoined Biggles curtly.

There was no more conversation. In silence, Biggles and Ginger watched events unfold on the beach. Cautiously, no doubt due to the heat which still imbued the metal skeleton of the Gosling, von Stalhein made his way along the fuselage to the cockpit area. For a couple of minutes, he could be seen carefully examining the wreckage. Then he walked slowly back along the beach the way that he had come, examining the sand between the track of the Gosling's undercarriage and the rocks and brush which marked the landward side of the beach. Having completed his survey, he returned to his men, who had remained standing in a close group around their prisoner.

"Do you think von Stalhein will set this lot to look for us?" asked Ginger.

"From the way they're standing there I'd say no," answered Biggles.

"Why not?"

"We might be anywhere. But you can be sure he's got some scheme on. You never know what he's going to pull out of the hat," replied Biggles, little guessing what it was and how soon it was to be exposed.

Two of the men picked up the petrol tins and walked towards the landward side of the beach. They promptly disappeared from sight, screened by the vegetation. Ten minutes or so passed.

"What d'you think they're up to?" asked Ginger, nervously.

Before Biggles could respond, the answer to Ginger's question was provided by the sudden appearance of wisps of smoke in a long line along the beach.

"So that's it," said Biggles grimly. "Fire. They've given it a flying start by spreading petrol in a line along the beach, and this kind of coastal scrub will burn like Old Nick when it's dry. With the wind behind the blaze, this place will be an inferno in a minute. Get down and hold your handkerchief over your face, Ginger."

Moments later, Biggles and Ginger caught the first whiff of smoke. Then clouds of smoke came sweeping along on the wind. Not only smoke, but smuts and particles of burning matter. From no great distance away came a harsh crackling noise. Birds were tearing past, screaming. Small animals dashed past, amongst them several cavies, those curious little South American animals that are half-rabbit and half-guinea pig. Flaming debris was being flung high and already Ginger could feel the heat on his face. It was not only the heat that swept up the slope in front of the fire, although it was scorching. It was the acrid, pungent smoke, which brought tears to their eyes and almost blinded them. It bit into their lungs and kept them coughing without respite.

A long low yellow wall of flame came leaping up the hill towards them. It looked as if the world was on fire.


	9. The rescue

**Chapter 9**

**The rescue**

A wall of leaping flames six feet high swept towards Biggles and Ginger. They crouched low in their crevice amongst the rocks and held their handkerchiefs over their faces. Where there were shrubs, bracken, or anything else that would burn, the fire came on up towards the rocky outcrop, but amongst the rocks the herbage grew only in tufts and clumps, which slowed it down, as it had to jump from one to the other. Hot sparks rained down on them, and set patches of their clothes smouldering. Then with a roar and a hiss the fire swept past their hiding place.

Time wore on. The sea breeze began to clear away the smoke.

"Phew! That was a close squeak," whispered Biggles, removing the handkerchief from his face. His eyes were red and bloodshot from the irritation of the smoke, and his face was blacked with soot and flying ash. Ginger was in no better state.

"Keep your head down, Ginger," ordered Biggles. "We've lost all our cover now, and von Stalhein and his crowd may still be hanging around."

Cautiously, he rose to his knees and peered out. Except for a faint wreath of smoke here and there the fire appeared to have burnt itself out. The slope down to the beach was now as black as a coal face, and as far as the eye could see was a carbonised expanse on which nothing remained except a few outcrops of rock and the blackened skeletons of the larger bushes. There was no sign of von Stalhein and his party.

"The scenery wasn't exactly thrilling before, but now it would be hard to find a word for it," remarked Biggles succinctly. "What a mess. I can't see anyone about, so let's go on to where that track comes down to the beach. Watch how you go - these rocks will be hotter than Hades."

Biggles and Ginger made their way down the slope to the sand of the beach without incident, save that on one occasion Ginger incautiously stepped into a hollow full of hot ashes, into which he sank above his ankles. He leapt out again with alacrity. Biggles smiled. "What's so funny?" snarled Ginger, frantically brushing hot embers out of his socks.

"You, laddie," Biggles told him cheerfully. "I haven't seen you move so fast in a long time."

As Biggles had expected, they found a definite well-worn track leading away from the beach at its southern end. Drifts of ash covered it in places, but it could be clearly seen winding towards the top of the ridge.

"This should lead us to the road," declared Biggles with satisfaction, striking out along the path. "It's starting to get dark, and I want to get out of this mess while there's still enough light to see."

They had not gone far when they struck a trickle of dirty water running down from the higher ground. "Water!" gasped Ginger. "Let's have a drink. My throat's like dust after breathing all that smoke."

In a moment they were both drinking greedily out of their cupped hands.

"That's pretty good stuff," vowed Ginger, rinsing his grimy face.

"You wouldn't think so in the ordinary way," grinned Biggles, taking another sip or two and allowing the liquid to trickle over his lips with ineffable relish.

Refreshed, Biggles and Ginger went on in light that was beginning to fail with the close of day. Just as it was getting too dark to see anything distinctly they reached a road. Although rough and somewhat rutted, it was broad and appeared to be of some importance. The fire had burnt itself out at this point, and the vegetation on the other side of the road was markedly different from the coastal scrub they had seen near the beach, being mostly waist high grass broken by the occasional clump of bushes.

Biggles stepped out onto the road and looked up and down. It was deserted. He observed, "I hate walking, but there's no other way. Let's get weaving."

"What are we going to do about Algy?" questioned Ginger.

"I don't quite know - yet," replied Biggles. "There's a good chance that Algy will be at the old Aeronavale base at Puerto Guano. The first thing is to get there. When we've done that we'll see what can be done."

"What if von Stalhein is waiting for us to arrive?"

Biggles shrugged. "We shall have to go anyway, but he must be hoping that we were burnt to death in the fire. That may make him careless."

Biggles and Ginger set off, heading south. Half an hour's walk brought them to a crossroads, at which stood a couple of dilapidated road signs bearing the names Puerto Guano and Rio Gallegos. "Left to Puerto Guano - one kilometre," translated Biggles. "Straight ahead to Rio Gallegos - we don't want to go there."

They had not been walking long before they came to two straggling rows of more or less dilapidated dwellings. As the moon had not yet risen, it was by now completely dark. Lights showed at the windows of the houses. Cooking smells were in the air.

Amongst the houses there was also a little general shop and a hardware store, indicated by sundry pot and pans outside the door. By the light of an oil lamp swinging from a chain, the proprietor of the hardware store - a gaunt, lean old man with a hooked nose - could be seen packing up his merchandise and preparing to close his shop. There were only a couple of other people about, and they paid no attention to Biggles and Ginger.

"These must be the homes of the workers at the port and the meat freezing plant," murmured Biggles. "I wonder if we dare ask the way to the airstrip?"

He halted and spoke politely to the old man in his best Spanish. With the courtesy that is natural to Spaniards, or people of Spanish descent, everywhere - provided that they are not rubbed the wrong way - the old man paused in his work and explained that at the far end of the village the road turned downhill to the harbour. Another road led uphill to the airstrip.

"_Se prohibe la entrada,"_ he added emphatically, followed by a torrent of Spanish too rapid for Ginger to understand.

"_Muchas gracias, senor,"_ acknowledged Biggles.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the old man, Biggles said to Ginger in a low voice, "Did you hear what he said? Strangers are discouraged from visiting in no uncertain fashion. One of the local lads got himself shot at a little while ago while trying to pinch some corrugated iron to repair the roof of his house. We shall have to watch our step."

On the other side of the village the thick coastal scrub resumed but Biggles and Ginger found the turn off to the airstrip without difficulty. A faint noise of sheep bleating could be heard in the distance, which puzzled Ginger until he remembered the existence of the meat freezing plant.

Before Biggles and Ginger had gone far lights began to show ahead and they knew they were nearing the end of the trail, but it was now too dark to see anything distinctly. Then the sound of an automobile engine coming up the road behind them sent them into a ditch at the side of the road. The vehicle turned out to be an American jeep. It drove past. As there was no one behind the jeep, Biggles and Ginger crawled back out of the ditch as soon as it had gone past. The jeep stopped no more than twenty yards ahead. Standing there, they watched a wooden gate, festooned with barbed wire, dragged open. On the other side of the gate was a sentry-box, but it appeared to be disused. The glare of the headlights of the jeep reflected on a continuation of the wire told them that the airfield, or whatever lay beyond, was enclosed, and that they were on the wrong side of the wire.

The jeep drove through the gateway and stopped. The gate was pulled back across the end of the track, and the vehicle drove on.

"Now what?" breathed Ginger.

"We'll follow the fence," answered Biggles. "There must be a way through that wire."

Biggles, with Ginger close behind him, had almost reached the fence when from somewhere in the darkness ahead came a sound which brought him to a halt. It was a low snarl. Biggles' eyes probed the shadows ahead but without success. He drew his automatic. The movement was greeted by another snarl, this time with a definite menace in it. Biggles started to back away, his pistol at the ready. "Let's get out of this," he said crisply. Quite apart from a disinclination to fire a shot which would betray their presence to the enemy, he had more sense than to take on a sizeable wild beast with a hand gun in what was almost pitch darkness.

There was another snarl, and Ginger caught a glimpse of a black, slinking shadow bounding away with feline grace.

"What in the name of goodness was that?" he exclaimed in alarm. "It looked like a jaguar!"

"It couldn't have been a jaguar; they only live in the jungle," replied Biggles. "But there is another kind of big cat in south America - the puma."

"One wouldn't be likely to be here alone. It's almost certain to have a mate. I don't feel like blundering about in the dark - we might bump into it," he continued. "We'll stay here until the moon comes up and we can see what we're doing."

Biggles sat down on the ground, took out his cigarette case, and calmly lit a cigarette. Ginger sat next to him, a little shaken by their encounter with the puma. An hour passed with hardly a word spoken. Once there was a crashing in the bushes and a squealing noise, not far away. The squealing ended with a pathetic, choking sob; then a silence followed by a ghastly purring sound.

Ginger shivered, and remarked, "That doesn't sound very pretty, does it?"

"By the time that puma has had a good fill of fresh meat he'll be more likely to think about forty winks than worrying us," said Biggles, without emotion.

An hour or so later the moon, nearly full, rose over the horizon and flooded the scene with its silvery radiance. By its light they investigated the fence; and it did not take them long to perceive that without wire cutters there was no hope of getting to the far side of it. It appeared to be of recent construction, and with strands stretched taut only a few inches apart it was not less than eight feet high, with loops or festoons of barbed wire along the top to entangle anyone who tried to climb over it. But then, as Biggles pointed out, had the fence not been manproof there would have been no point to it. "The Germans always are thorough in little things," he observed. "Von Stalhein is taking no chances with unwelcome visitors."

"Let's go back to the village and see if that fellow at the hardware shop has a pair of wire cutters," suggested Ginger.

Biggles shook his head. "No use," he said briefly. "He wouldn't have anything like that in his stock. We\rquote ll press on in the hopes of finding a hole somewhere."

They trudged along the fence for a few hundred yards but without success. Biggles was just about to suggest returning to the entrance to the enclosure and examining the possibility of throwing their jackets over the wooden gate, and by this means attempting to climb it, when his foot caught in an unseen obstruction. Instinctively, he put out his hand to seize hold of the fence, but at the last moment he remembered the barbed wire, which was capable of tearing his hand to shreds, and consequently measured his length on the ground. He sat up with a grunt of satisfaction. "This is a stroke of luck."

Ginger ran to help him. "What d'you mean, a stroke of luck?" he inquired sarcastically. "Have you sprained your ankle?"

"No, I'm fine. Look at this armadillo burrow I fell into. It goes under the fence. The little beasts are terrific diggers, and with a bit of work we should be able to make this hole big enough for us to get through."

They set to work with a will at enlarging the hole, using a couple of sharpened sticks that Biggles cut with his jack-knife. It was not easy, and hands, which had to be used to scrape away the loosened soil, were soon showing signs of harsh treatment. But progress, if slow, was made. After a while the hole was big enough to put head and shoulders through. Ginger wriggled through. Biggles followed. Being somewhat larger than Ginger, his jacket caught on the bottom strand of the wire, and it took a couple of minutes for Ginger to disentangle him. Finally, however, they both stood on the other side of the fence, warily surveying the scene that lay before them.

In the moonlight Biggles and Ginger saw a number of hangars spaced out along the runway. Dark patches on the ground between the hangars indicated the presence of abandoned gun-pits. Clustered at one end, close to the gateway to t he airfield, were a number of smaller buildings. From one of the buildings, yellow light shone through the windows. The jeep that they had seen earlier was parked in front of it.

"No one on guard duty," whispered Biggles.

"Do you think it's a trap?"

"That's a risk we shall have to take. We'll see if we can get up to that building and find out what's going on."

There were no trees, no bushes, nothing to offer cover, for these, as is customary near aerodromes had been removed to prevent them from becoming obstructions to the movement of aircraft. However, they worked their way cautiously towards the building with the lighted windows, keeping to the shadows of the buildings as far as possible. Eventually the objective was reached. Several of the windows appeared to be open, and a buzz of conversation could be heard. Light streamed from an open doorway, which was sheltered by a portico. Three or four rifles had carelessly been left leaning against the wall near the door, and Biggles eyed them thoughtfully, his military training revolting at such behaviour.

Suddenly to their ears came the soft strumming of a guitar. Presently the guitar playing ceased, and from somewhere not far away came the voice of a man singing, loudly, in a rather unmelodious baritone. The words were in English, and to Ginger nothing had ever sounded more incongruous; for the mournful ballad was one once popular in the early days of war flying.

_Who cares to the dust returning,_

_Who shrinks from the sable shore,_

_Where the high and haughty yearning_

_Of the soul shall be no more._

"What the deuce is going on?" exclaimed Ginger. "A concert?"

"That's Algy," snapped Biggles. "Come on. He must be reckoning we're somewhere about."

He hurried around a corner, guided by the sound as the singer continued.

_So stand by your glasses steady,_

_This world is a world of lies,_

_A cup to the dead already,_

_A glass for the next man who dies._

The voice was coming from the moonless side of a small square building standing a little apart from the others.

Looking up Biggles could just make out the square of a small window, high up, and a pale disk which he knew was a human face.

"Algy! Is that you?" called Biggles softly.

The answer cam instantly. "Yes, I'm here, Biggles. Is Ginger with you?" came Algy's voice, cheerfully. "I was hoping you were around, hence the singing."

"D'you call that singing?" said Ginger scornfully.

"What's wrong with my singing?" demanded Algy coldly.

Biggles broke in. "Cut that out," he snapped. "Algy, what's stopping you from getting out?"

"Iron bars. I can't budge them. I fancy this was the detention cell when this base was occupied by the Argentinian Airforce. It seems to be used as a storehouse now – I'll tell you about that in a minute."

"Where's the door?"

"Around the other side."

"Are we likely to be disturbed by a sentry?"

"No, there's no guard, but I fancy one would have been posted if von Stalhein was still here," replied Algy.

"What, has he gone?" questioned Biggles in astonishment. "He doesn't leave a job in the middle."

"Yes, he's gone. I don't know why or where. As soon as we got here, some Argentinian fellow came running up to him in a state of great excitement, and gave him a wireless message. He gave orders for his machine - that blue-nosed Messerschmitt - to be refuelled, and then he jumped into it and flew off. He was in a tearing rage, too. Anyway, as soon as von Stalhein left the Argentinians pushed me in here and locked the door. As soldiers they seem to be a bunch of useless erks, but they've treated me very decently. They gave me a good dinner and half a bottle of wine with it."

"You lucky blighter," snorted Ginger. "My stomach's falling out. It's about time we had something to eat."

"Stop thinking about food. We're wasting time," retorted Biggles curtly. "I propose to look around the sheds here for some tools, a file or something, and see if we can cut through the bars on the window."

"It's not a very big window," said Algy dubiously. "I shall have a dickens of a job getting through it. And it's very high up. I'm standing on a bench as it is. What about breaking down the door?"

"What with?" replied Biggles sarcastically. "It'll be made of solid wood. We'd need an axe to knock it down with, and that would make a tremendous racket."

"What about shooting out the lock?"

There was a short pause while Biggles considered the idea. "No," he decided. "It would take too many shots - and the first one will bring a crowd here."

The mention of the lock gave Ginger an idea. In a voice quivering with excitement he asked, "Biggles, have you still got those skeleton keys that fellow dropped in our hotel room in Buenos Aires?"

Biggles started. "By James, Ginger, I have," he declared. "My brain must be getting addled."

He ran around to the other side of the building and put his hand in his pocket for the skeleton keys. After some failures one was found to fit the door. Biggles pushed it open.

The building, which was just one big room, was dimly lit by a stub of candle stuck in the neck of a bottle. A bench had been pushed against the wall beneath the window on the other side. In one corner was a trestle bed, with blankets folded at its head. There was no other furniture. Piled in another corner were a large number of small but obviously heavy sacks. All these things Biggles saw in much less time than it takes to describe.

Algy was standing in the middle of the room. He gestured towards the sacks and said in tones of suppressed excitement, "What do you think of these, Biggles? I haven't been able to open one but they seem to be full of pebbles."

Biggles took his jack-knife and cut a slit in one of the sacks. Out trickled a quantity of what looked like coarse gravel and river pebbles.

"Ah," breathed Biggles. "Uncut diamonds. It's plain enough to see through the thing now. No doubt the U-boat ties up at the wharf at some unearthly hour and they run the stuff down to the harbour in a lorry."

Algy grinned. "I thought so. Those Argentinians will get a kick in the pants from von Stalhein when he discovers that they locked me in his diamond dump."

Ginger broke in impatiently. "Now that we've found what we've been looking for, let's get out of here."

"Good idea," declared Algy. "How did you fellows get past the wire, anyway?"

"We crawled through an armadillo burrow," replied Ginger. He looked at Biggles questioningly. "Are we leaving the way we came?"

"No," replied Biggles. "This walking makes an old man of me. My legs were made for rudder-bars, not padding the hoof like an animal. We've got to get transport of some sort. There's a jeep parked outside the Agentinian mess. We'll take it."

He continued, "Algy - you drive. Ginger and I will deal with any of the Argentinians who try to stop us."

Swiftly, and without any attempt at concealment, Biggles walked straight across the open moonlit area towards the jeep. Algy and Ginger followed. They reached the jeep just as a man appeared at the door of the building. He saw them and shouted something, then snatched up one of the rifles and raised it to his shoulder.

"All right. Let her go," ordered Biggles. "Don't stop for anything. This is it."

He snapped off a couple of shots from his automatic in the general direction of the doorway. He did not trouble to take aim, but blazed away simply with the idea of keeping up a hot covering fire. Ginger joined in.

The gears engaged and the jeep moved forward, gathering speed. Its headlights cut a wedge of light through the darkness. By the time it had reached the gate it was doing forty. Faced with a right-angled turn and knowing the tendency of a jeep to overturn when cornering at high speed, Algy had to steady the pace, but he was still going fast when with a splintering crash the jeep smashed into the gates. The gates collapsed, the jeep swerved violently, grazed the trunk of a small tree, and ricocheted back onto the road. Algy clung to the wheel. The others clung to the sides of the jeep.

A few shots were fired. A bullet whanged against some metal part of the vehicle, and they were away.


	10. Back to Vicuna

**Chapter 10**

**Back to Vicuna**

"Where are we bound for?" asked Algy, as they reached the junction of the road to the airstrip and the village street.

"Take the right here. Then right again at the crossroads. We're heading for the British & Imperial Pastoral Company airstrip at Vicuna, about 30 miles north of here. An old friend of ours is in charge there - you remember Pat O'Neilson?"

Algy nodded, and put his foot on the accelerator. The jeep raced forward. As they sped up the road towards Vicuna, Biggles gave Algy a brief account of their adventures since they had last seen him, and Algy described his, although there was little that Biggles had not guessed. By the time these notes had been exchanged they had gone some miles, and there was no sign of pursuit.

Within an hour they had reached the sign indicating the turn off to Vicuna.

"This will do," Biggles said. "Stop here. We need to work out our next move."

Algy obediently turned the jeep off the road and allowed it to run quietly in between some of the bushes that hemmed them in on both sides. Not until the vehicle was a good twenty yards from the road did he apply the brakes and switch off the lights.

For a moment they sat in silence. Then Algy spoke. "What's the scheme?" he demanded.

"I think for a start we'll go back to Puerto Guano," replied Biggles.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" exclaimed Algy.

Biggles smiled. "I think that must be the answer," he replied.

He continued, more seriously. "We know now that Puerto Guano is the place being used as the diamond dump. Good. But to finish the job we were sent to do we need to know the location of the diamond mine."

He paused. The others nodded their agreement.

He continued, "Algy, what's the position at Puerto Guano? How many troops are stationed there?"

"Only four soldiers; the ones you saw nab me on the beach. There's a couple of other fellows as well; a mechanic and a wireless operator."

"What sort of men are they?"

Algy shrugged. "You saw 'em. A scruffy-looking lot - typical Spanish Americans."

Biggles lighted a cigarette and flicked the dead match away. "I've got the glimmering of an idea. Tomorrow is Thursday. As you know, the Argentinian Air Ministry lays on a Dragon Moth to run mails and despatches down the coast from San Julian to Rio Grande, in Tierra del Fuego. It pulls into Puerto Guano on a Thursday afternoon, somewhere between four and five o'clock in the afternoon. It's pretty clear that Dragon Moth is the diamond transport. It must slip over to the diamond mine - which I'm guessing is located somewhere along the headwaters of the Brizo Sur - and pick up a load of diamonds before landing at Puerto Guano. Tomorrow, we shall be waiting for it. We'll grab it. We may discover something important in the machine - maps - log-books - orders - you never know. Few pilots trust to memory - for which reason maps captured from airmen are highly esteemed by the Intelligence Branch. It's ten to one the pilot of the Dragon Moth will have made some notes or pencil marks which will indicate his course. In fact, it was through carelessness of that kind on my part that von Stalhein tracked us down to Bergen Ait, when we were up in the Baltic."

"And how exactly do you intend to manage this?" queried Algy sarcastically.

Biggles smiled. "Pat O'Neilson has a Dragon Moth at Vicuna. Ginger and I shall borrow it. We'll land at Puerto Guano at about three o'clock. If I know anything about Spanish Americans, the Argentinians will all be taking it easy digesting their lunch. As you should know, in South America practically everything closes down from about one o'clock until four. The Argentinians will assume our Dragon Moth is the one that they're expecting, although they may wonder why it's a bit early. Once we've locked them up - probably in that place we got you out of - I shall put on an old pair of overalls, because then I shall look like an Agentinian mechanic when the diamond transport lands."

"That sounds a pretty wild scheme to me," stated Ginger. "What about von Stalhein? He may go back to Puerto Guano."

"It's time you knew that the wilder the scheme the more likely it is to click," said Biggles calmly. "Further, von Stalhein is a German, consequently there is one quality that he lacks and that's imagination. Though he searches the whole country, there is one place in which he will not expect to find us, and that's Puerto Guano. By tomorrow morning he'll know that Algy has escaped and he'll also know that we know that Puerto Guano is the place being used for the diamond dump. From his point of view, we've got what we came for so he'll expect us to head back to Buenos Aires, to the British Embassy there."

"I hope you're right," muttered Ginger.

"What about me?" put in Algy. "Why not let me go?"

"No," Biggles was definite. "I'll get Bertie to slip over from the Falklands and pick you up. There's a place near Vicuna where he can get the flying-boat down. As second-in-command, I shall have to ask you to remain at the Falklands."

"This being second-in-command does me out of all the fun that's going," protested Algy.

"I'm aware of it," admitted Biggles. "But in a military operation either the first or second in command should remain in reserve in case things come unstuck. If by any chance we don't turn up you'll have to use your own initiative about what to do. Now let's press on to Vicuna."

By the time the jeep pulled into the little settlement of Vicuna, it was close to midnight. Biggles gave Algy instructions to head for the landing strip. No lights showed at the windows of the houses, but a number of dogs, presumably sheep-dogs, could be heard barking in the distance. The jeep was concealed in the hangar housing O'Neilson's Dragon Moth, and Biggles ordered Algy and Ginger to stay with it while he made his way over to O'Neilson's house and made contact with him.

"We'll have to get rid of this jeep before anyone sees it. It's got Argentinian military markings," he said tersely. "I'm sure Pat will help us, but I don't want to drag him into this business any more than I have to. I'll explain the plan to him and get back here as soon as I can."

Presently, Biggles returned. With him was Pat O\rquote Neilson, carrying a bundle of blankets, some food - bread, cheese and ham - tied up in a cloth, and a water bottle.

He recognised Algy and smiled a greeting. "Hullo, Algy. Biggles told me you tracked down the Hun diamond dump. Good show."

Algy returned the smile. "Nothing to it," he declared.

Biggles cut in. "Algy, you and Pat will take the jeep down to the jetty I told you about. There's a cliff there that you can drive the jeep over and sink it in deep water. Pat will show you the place, then come back here on foot. It's only a couple of miles. You stay there and keep your head down until Bertie can get over to pick you up. Ginger and I will send a signal to Port Stanley telling Bertie to come over as soon as he can. We'll stay here, in the hangar, until it's time to leave for Puerto Guano. It would be best if Pat is the only person who knows anything about this business for as long as possible."

"Okay," agreed Algy. "We'd better get off, then."

"A couple of other things. First, when you get to the Falklands, send Raymond an urgent message telling him that Puerto Guano is the place that von Stalhein is using to load the U-boats, and we're running on a hot scent. Ask him to organise some military machines for us. Whatever he can get in a hurry. I have a feeling we will be needing them soon. Second, Ginger and I should be back from Puerto Guano by tomorrow evening. We'll be waiting at the jetty for you to pick us up in the flying-boat by dawn the day after tomorrow."

Brief goodbyes were exchanged and the jeep drove off. Biggles and Ginger went to the radio building, which housed a modern wireless transmitter. Ginger was of course already familiar with the equipment. It was by this time shortly after one o'clock in the morning.

"At this hour, hopefully no-one will be listening in," remarked Biggles. "I don't want anything going wrong, so tell the night radio operator to get Bertie out of bed. I want to be sure he understands what he's got to do."

Fifteen minutes later an answering message was received to say that Flight Lieutenant Lissie was standing by for orders. Bertie was given instructions to come over as soon as he could in the morning to collect Algy. This done, Biggles and Ginger returned to the hangar.

"Right. I'm going to roost in the Dragon Moth. Pat told me the seats have been taken out, so there'll be plenty of room," said Biggles. "I'm too tired to eat anything now."

He looked hard at Ginger's face. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Right as rain - why?"

"I thought you looked a bit pale, that's all."

Ginger forced a grin, for in fact he was feeling a little unwell. "Must be all the excitement on an empty stomach," he said casually.

Biggles climbed into the aircraft, kicked off his shoes, wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down to sleep. Ginger followed his example.

He was tired and expected to fall asleep at once without difficulty; but this did not happen. For a long time he lay still with his eyes closed, hoping that the spasm of nausea from which he was suffering would pass off. It did not. On the contrary, it became worse. He became aware that his left arm was throbbing painfully. Having always enjoyed good health he could not imagine what was wrong; and the fact that something was wrong only served to irritate him. But this aspect of the matter was forgotten, to be replaced by real fear, when he tried to rise but found that he had lost the power of movement. His bones and muscles had turned to jelly. He tried to shout, but he could only croak. An icy chill began to creep through his limbs, yet he shivered with fever. A deadly weariness came over him and he fell into a dream in which he saw Jeanette Ducoste, close enough to touch. He reached out to her and called her name over and over again but she faded away and the dream became a ghastly nightmare in which Erich von Stalhein was searing the flesh from the bone of his arm with a red-hot iron.

Suddenly Ginger became conscious that he was drinking; that water, cool refreshing water was splashing on his face. He heard Biggles' voice, but it sounded far away.

"Hold hard, Ginger, I shall have to cut them out."

Ginger felt a sudden sharp pain in his left arm. Then darkness rushed in upon him. His head was spinning and he felt himself falling - falling - falling ...

When Ginger awoke the sun was casting slanting shafts of yellow light through the skylights in the hangar roof. It took him some time to remember where he was and what had happened. Gradually consciousness returned, and with it a mild throbbing ache in his arm, which he now saw was bandaged. But his head was clearer. Biggles was squatting in the doorway of the machine, smoking a cigarette. He must have heard Ginger move, for in a flash he turned round.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Not too bad. What happened?"

Biggles' eyes took on a far-away look that Ginger had never see before and which made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"I heard you calling out Jeanette's name last night," he said quietly. "You were delirious. I realised that you must have come down with tick fever. I had to dig two of the filthy little brutes out of your arm with my jack-knife."

Rather awkwardly, Ginger changed the subject. "Has Bertie been over?"

"I heard aero engines at about six o'clock. I didn't see the machine but it sounded like the flying-boat. It seemed to get away without any trouble. I was afraid that if our message was picked up the air might be stiff with Messerschmitts this morning."

"Is there much of that grub left?"

"Yes. I've had my breakfast. You can polish off the rest of it."

The next few hours passed slowly, as is always the case when important events are impending. Ginger, in response to Biggles' questioning, declared that he felt much better for having eaten some food. Indeed, he did feel better, but his left arm troubled him a good deal more than he was prepared to admit. This was understandable. Ginger could not bear to think that physical weakness on his part should result in the failure of the mission.

Biggles and Ginger did not see O'Neilson until nearly two o'clock, when he appeared with some sandwiches and a flask of tea. "Better have lunch before you go," he said cheerfully. "We're all set. Nobody knows you're here. I've sent my mechanics off on an errand to Santa Cruz. They won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. I don't think anybody else here will think anything of it when you take off."

O'Neilson stayed chatting with Biggles and Ginger until it was three o'clock, then helped them to open the hangar doors and pull the Dragon Moth out.

"It's time we were moving," declared Biggles, glancing at his wrist-watch. "We should be back before it gets dark. In case we're not, can you put some flares out for us?"

"Of course," replied O'Neilson. "I must be mad to have allowed myself to get tangled up with you, Biggles," he continued, shaking his head. "I shall get fired for this if you don't bring my machine back in one piece."

"I'll do my best," promised Biggles.

"Stout fellow, O'Neilson," commented Ginger as the Dragon Moth taxied down the airstrip.

"It's just because any Britisher would do what he's done that the old Empire goes on," returned Biggles quietly.


	11. Move and counter move

**Chapter 11**

**Move and counter move**

Only a few minutes after taking off from Vicuna the little village of Puerto Guano came into sight and Ginger could see a ship, as tiny as a child's toy at that distance, tied up at the mole busy loading what were presumably frozen carcasses of mutton. The odd thought struck Ginger that he might, one day, after he arrived home, find himself eating a chop from one of those same dead sheep.

Without bothering to circle the aerodrome, Biggles took the Dragon Moth down and landed, finishing his run near the hangars. "Keep out of sight, Ginger," he ordered. "There's no need for the Argentines to know that there's two of us on this job. Step in only if I get into a jam."

As Biggles climbed out, an unshaven man in a faded, untidy uniform emerged in a desultory fashion from the mess building and came slowly towards the machine. Apart from him the aerodrome was deserted. The man looked mildly puzzled but not alarmed at seeing a strange face. "Senor, what do you mean, landing at this hour?" he grumbled in Spanish. "You are not expected until after four o'clock. Don't you know I always rest at this time?"

"No," replied Biggles in the same language. "It's my first time on this run, and I was anxious not to be late, so I left early - there was supposed to be a strong headwind today, but it didn't materialise. Where is everybody?"

"Resting," was the reply.

"Shall we leave unloading the machine until later? I wouldn't mind a drink now."

"Certainly, senor, I will join you in taking refreshment."

Concealed in the machine, Ginger watched Biggles and the Argentinian walk towards the mess building. A few minutes later, six men emerged, with their hands in the air. Biggles walked behind them, his automatic in his hand. The little group made their way towards the prison hut from which Biggles and Ginger had liberated Algy only the night before. They disappeared around the corner and shortly afterwards Biggles reappeared, alone. He walked back towards the Dragon Moth, and Ginger jumped down to join him.

"Everything go according to plan, chief?" he questioned.

"Piece of cake," Biggles replied briefly. "Now let's get cracking. We've got to get the machine out of sight."

Together, they pushed the Dragon Moth into the nearest hangar. Biggles found an oil stained pair of overalls in a corner and put them on. He also smeared some oil on his hands and face.

A little more than an hour later the drone of aircraft engines was heard approaching. A Dragon Moth appeared. It circled the airstrip and prepared to land.

"We'll follow the same drill," ordered Biggles. "Stay out of sight in the hangar unless it becomes necessary for you to take a hand."

The Dragon Moth landed and taxied up towards the hangars. A man in flying kit jumped down and stood by the nose of the machine. Biggles strolled nonchalantly toward him, and hailed him.

"_Buenos dias, senor,"_ he greeted, feeling in his pocket for his gun. As his fingers closed around the butt of the automatic, a voice spoke.

"Good afternoon, Major Bigglesworth. I thought I might meet you here," it said mockingly.

Biggles recognised the voice instantly. He spun round, to find himself staring into the blue muzzle of a Mauser revolver held, as he already knew, by Erich von Stalhein.

For several seconds he was speechless with shock. He had often been astonished, but never in all his experience had he been so violently shaken by an event for which he was not only unprepared but had not considered possible. It required an effort to steady his spinning facilities. He was really angry with himself for having stepped into the trap but all he said was, "Congratulations."

"On what?"

"On changing your nationality - again. A little while ago, you were sailing under a Scandinavian flag. And now you're flying under the Argentinian insignia. In the circumstances, I can only congratulate you. After her recent actions in Europe, Germany's name must stink to high heaven in the nostrils of civilised nations."

The thrust clearly went home. Von Stalhein turned red and then white, and for a moment Biggles thought he was going to strike him. Biggles stiffened. He had no intention of taking a blow from the German whatever the circumstances. Then, with an obvious effort, von Stalhein recovered his composure.

"I assume Lacey and Hebblethwaite are pursuing their meddlesome activities not far away," he commented. "Where are they?"

"I suppose there's no harm in your asking but I have a higher regard for your intelligence than to suppose that you expect a correct answer," answered Biggles. Vaguely, at the back of his mind, Biggles had the idea of delaying von Stalhein from searching the hangars for as long as possible, in order to give Ginger a chance to escape or hide. One of the German's few weaknesses was vanity, and Biggles determined to play upon it if he could.

"By the way, how did you know I would be here?" he continued.

"Knowing your nerve, I expected something of this kind," sneered von Stalhein. "Clever, but not clever enough. Oh, we'd better have that pistol of yours, if you don't mind."

Biggles had no alternative but to hand over the weapon. To attempt to use it at this juncture would have been suicidal, for half a dozen German troops had now climbed down from the Dragon Moth. His pockets were searched. Von Stalhein scowled malevolently at the sight of the skeleton keys but said nothing. Biggles' watch was removed, and handcuffs placed on his wrists. Von Stalhein then snapped an order to his men, and they moved off together to make a thorough search of the airfield. Only the pilot of the aircraft remained, and it seemed that von Stalhein was taking no chances because the man produced a pistol, which he kept trained on Biggles. He was young, in the early twenties, with flaxen hair and blue eyes, and might have been called good-looking. But in the truculent bearing, the cold, humourless face and the hard, merciless mouth, Biggles recognised the typical Hitler fanatic. As he had on more than one occasion remarked to Ginger, they all appeared to have been cast in the same mould - as in fact, in a way, they were. The man stood watching Biggles with a sneer of contempt and the revolver consciously displayed in his hand.

With steel bracelets on his wrists Biggles was absolutely helpless, and he squatted dejectedly on an undercarriage wheel. It would not do to repeat the names he was calling himself, for he was furious with himself for having under-estimated the enemy.

He watched as O'Neilson's Dragon Moth was dragged out of the hangar in which it had been concealed and he listened for sounds of shouting, or of shots being fired, which would indicate that Ginger had been discovered. He heard nothing, and he began to hope that Ginger had escaped. His mind turned to his own position. He could not understand why he had not been shot out of hand. Biggles knew that he had slipped through von Stalhein's fingers too many times for the German to run one single risk of his escaping. There must be some explanation and he suspected that it was a sinister one.

Then an unpleasant thought struck him. Von Stalhein would undoubtedly make inquiries about the ownership of the machine in which Biggles had arrived at Puerto Guano. He must suspect that Biggles had received assistance from British people, or people sympathetic to British interests, living in the area. Biggles knew the German well enough to know that, actuated as he was by personal motives as well as those of patriotism, he would not rest until he had identified Biggles' friends. It could only be a question of time before the Dragon Moth was traced to the British pastoral interests at Vicuna. The fact that O'Neilson was a civilian would weigh little with a man as thorough and relentless as Erich von Stalhein, and Biggles was sick with self-recrimination at the thought of the trouble that he might bring on his old friend.

Presently von Stalhein stalked back to the machine at the head of his troops. Ginger was not with them. Von Stalhein spoke briefly to the pilot who had been left to guard Biggles, from which Biggles learned that von Stalhein intended to fly the machine back to the German base. The other man was to fly the Dragon Moth in which Biggles and Ginger had arrived.

Biggles was pushed unceremoniously into the cabin. The Germans followed and von Stalhein took his place at the controls. The engine roared. The machine swung round into the wind, bumped for a moment over the hard ground, and soared into the air.

Biggles had flown many aeroplanes in many lands, but the flight that now commenced provided a new sensation. For once he was flying as a passenger. Moreover, he was on a flight of unknown duration to a problematic destination. He did not even know with certainty the direction in which he was flying - although he suspected that it was west - for without a compass to guide him he could only gather a very broad idea of direction from the angle of the rays of the fading sun across the cabin. Seated as he was between two of his captors, he could only just see out of the cabin windows, and from this position he was, of course, unable to look down, so the only part of the landscape visible was the distant horizon.

Time passed. Biggles did not know how long for his watch had been taken from him. He only knew that it was beginning to get dark. He began to long for the break in the regular drone of the engine that would foretell the end of the journey. Still there was no indication that they were nearing their objective, and he resumed his cogitations wearily. The thing uppermost in his mind was Ginger's fate.

The monotonous purr of the engines died away suddenly and the nose of the machine dipped downward. Biggles was alert instantly, for it seemed that the end of the journey was at hand. Nor was he mistaken, and he leaned forward eagerly in the hope of catching a glimpse of the ground, only to be thrust back roughly by one of the soldiers who sat beside him. Worse was still to come, for there was a sharp word of command and before the machine touched the ground a bandage had been bound over his eyes, so that when the machine ran to a standstill he was even worse off than he had been in the air, for he could see nothing at all. He knew better than to protest against this indignity, knowing that argument was futile, and he submitted with the best grace he could muster.

In what followed he was guided entirely by sound and touch. He heard a babble of German voices, which he guessed was a ground party who had run out to meet the machine and guide it in. He was led for some distance across hard ground, and then von Stalhein spoke quietly in his ear. "Pick up your feet - there are three steps in front of you." From the sound and feel, he guessed them to be wooden steps. There was another word of command, a door opened, and he was pushed into a room. The bandage was removed from his eyes and for a second he stood blinking like an owl in the light. He found himself in what appeared to be a wooden hut, furnished as living quarters, and lit by a couple of electric bulbs dangling from the ceiling.

A middle-aged, heavily built man, with a broad flattish face in which were deeply set small calculating eyes, sprawled in an armchair with a glass in his hand. His pugnacious jaw, gimlet eyes and arrogant bearing bespoke an official of importance. His grey hair had been cropped so short that he appeared to be completely bald. He rose slowly from his chair and stood up, legs apart, to face Biggles squarely. In some strange way he reminded Biggles of a mangy bulldog.

Von Stalhein clicked to attention and saluted with military precision.

The other man's right hand flew up. "Heil Hitler!" he snapped. "Who is this?" he continued harshly, indicating Biggles with a gesture.

"_Herr Commandant Schultz_, this is the British agent Bigglesworth," replied von Stalhein in an expressionless voice. "Alive, as you ordered."

The man whom von Stalhein had addressed as Schultz regarded Biggles briefly with a mixture of contempt and hostility. Then he sank back into his chair and reached for a bottle that stood on a nearby table. Deliberately, he refilled his glass.

"So! This is the _Englander_ who has caused you so much trouble, von Stalhein," he remarked scornfully. "He doesn't look like a super-man to me."

"Bigglesworth is a menace, sir, and it would be wise not to forget it," replied von Stalhein stiffly.

"What is all this fuss about one man, even if his name is Bigglesworth. Am I to think that you are afraid of him?" scoffed Schultz.

Von Stalhein ignored the jibe. "Remember, you haven't only Bigglesworth to deal with. There are three of them," he replied. "They make a formidable combination and if they were not under the protection of the devil himself they would all have been dead long ago."

Schultz yawned. "Ach, so. Then Bigglesworth shall tell me everything he knows," he said casually.

He drained his glass and addressed Biggles in fair English, although with a pronounced accent. "Where are your friends, _Englander?_"

"I have nothing to say," replied Biggles.

"So you don't feel inclined to talk, eh?" returned Schultz harshly. "You British have a reputation for being pig-headed but we of the Gestapo have methods of asking questions that would make the dumb speak. I'll give you a little while to think it over."

Turning to von Stalhein he went on, in German: "Have Bigglesworth put in with the other prisoner. I'll talk to him again later."

Von Stalhein hesitated. "It would be better not to delay the matter, sir," he replied in the same language.

Schultz frowned. "I said that I would deal with the prisoner later," he said curtly.

Still von Stalhein hesitated. "I know Bigglesworth; you don't. He's a dangerous man," he protested.

Schultz's face darkened with anger. _"Schrecklichkeit!"_ he exploded. "You've allowed the fellow to give you an inferiority complex, von Stalhein. You heard what I said!" He reached for the bottle again.

There was a short silence and then von Stalhein, slightly pale from vexation, snapped an order. Two armed soldiers seized Biggles by the arms and marched him out of the room. Von Stalhein followed.


	12. Ginger goes alone

**Chapter 12**

**Ginger goes alone**

Ginger's state of mind as, peering out from the hangar, he saw the German troops emerge from the Dragon Moth and Biggles taken prisoner, can be more easily imagined than described. He was appalled by the cunning way in which von Stalhein had anticipated and countered their plan. Further, he could think of no reason why von Stalhein should not give himself the satisfaction of immediately standing Biggles up in front of a firing squad. Apart from the present situation, the German had old scores to settle, and he was not a man to waste time. If that had occurred, it seems likely that Ginger would have launched, from long range, a single-handed attack on the firing party, and lost his life for his pains.

He saw von Stalhein and his men move towards the buildings, and he realised that it was only a matter of moments before the hangar was searched. To leave by the door without being seen was obviously out of the question. Ginger looked about quickly for a place of concealment. There was none. The only possible hiding-place that he could imagine at that moment was the machine that he and Biggles had arrived in. He scrambled up into the cabin and in a panic looked about for a hiding place. The luggage compartment in the rear was clearly indicated, and into it he bundled just as the tramp of feet were heard entering the hangar. The blankets which he and Biggles had slept under had luckily had been left in the cabin, and they offered possibilities. Ginger crouched low and pulled the blankets over him.

Almost at once he heard a babble of excited conversation in German. The cabin door was opened, and he felt the fuselage of the machine move slightly as someone climbed in. There was a moment's silence, and then a few more words were exchanged in German. To Ginger's unspeakable relief the cabin door was closed again. Then to his surprise he felt the machine being dragged out onto the tarmac. For a moment he considered making a dash for the cockpit and taking off. He had an uneasy feeling that it might be his duty to do so, rather than stay where he was and risk almost certain discovery. But this would mean abandoning Biggles, and that he could not contemplate.

Ginger was not afraid for himself, that was an aspect that did not enter into his calculations. It was the thought of having to act alone, when possibly he might make a bad blunder with fatal results to the desperate business in which they were engaged, that tormented him. He missed Algy desperately.

It was hot and stuffy beneath the blankets. To make matters worse, Ginger's left arm started to ache abominably and he felt distinctly feverish. With his handkerchief he cautiously mopped the beads of perspiration that formed on his forehead. He began to feel an unreasoning anger towards Germans in general and towards von Stalhein in particular. He hated the war, and he hated the enemy for starting the war. If there was no war, they would all be comfortably at home in their Mount Street flat. And Jeanette would not be dead - but it was better not to think of Jeanette.

In these unpleasant circumstances the time passed slowly. Finally, the cabin door was opened and Ginger heard voices. "You are taking this machine, _senor?_" asked someone, respectfully, in Spanish.

"Yes," was the reply, in irritable tones. "My chief will fly our machine with the prisoner and our troops back to the camp on the Brizo Sur. After you blundering fools of Argentinians let that other fellow get away, we can't leave the prisoner here. I will follow in this machine."

"What could we do?" protested the first voice. "There were at least half a dozen men in the party that released him, all mad Englishmen. What are you going to do with this prisoner, anyway?"

"_Commandant_ Schultz will know how to deal with him. When this affair is over there will be one damned Britisher the less, anyhow," was the reply. The speaker laughed unpleasantly.

Ginger's brain raced as he listened to this illuminating conversation. For a moment he wondered how the man referred to as Commandant Schultz fitted into the picture. Then he dismissed the matter from his mind. Of more importance was that an obvious solution to his problems had presented itself. He need only to wait until the machine was in the air, seize control of it from the unsuspecting German pilot, and follow von Stalhein to his destination. He did not think beyond that. But of one thing he was certain: either he would effect a rescue or die with Biggles. He promised himself grimly that if a hair on Biggles' head was hurt - well, it would be the worse for von Stalhein.

There was a brief silence as someone, presumably the man who was to fly the machine, climbed into the cabin and made his way to the cockpit. He called out, "There is no need to refuel; the tanks are nearly full."

Ginger could now hear the roar of aero engines being started. He knew them to be those of the other Dragon Moth. The roar receded, as if the machine was being taxied into position for take-off. Then the fuselage of Ginger's Dragon Moth quivered as its engines sprang to life. Their growl rose to a below. The machine began to move forward.

Ginger took a deep breath of relief. So far so good. For the time being he was content to sit still, to give the machine time to clear the airstrip and gain some altitude. Moreover, his arm was still aching and he felt slightly giddy. He wanted to compose himself to be calm and resolute for the next move. The tricky part of the business was yet to come.

He allowed rather more than half an hour to pass, then got up and looked out the window. The sky was red with the approach of sunset, and the mountains loomed in the distance. Dead ahead a volcano announced its presence in solemn but spectacular majesty. Every twenty seconds, with the punctuality of a chronometer it belched a plume of yellow sulphurous smoke towards the stratosphere, there to lose itself and disperse slowly in the direction of the unseen stars. This told him that the machine was travelling west. Far behind lay the sea, calm, colourless and deserted. Below he could see a river winding through the _pampas_, presumably the Brizo Sur. Altitude he reckoned to be about five thousand feet, with the machine no longer climbing.

He waited a little longer and then walked forward. He could see the German pilot's head and shoulders. He was well down in his seat, gazing ahead, his right hand resting lightly on the control column. Feeling in his pocket, Ginger took out his automatic. Then he hesitated. He perceived that although he held all the advantages of surprise attack - perhaps the most vital element in fighting of any sort - he was by no means master of the situation. It would have been a simple matter to use his gun, but even in his present mood he shrank from shooting an unarmed man at point-blank range.

Then a look of almost savage determination set his lips in a hard line. On his actions depended both Biggles' life and the success of their mission. The other man was an enemy soldier; a Nazi. From what he knew of Nazi methods, he reflected, a Nazi would not hesitate to shoot him in the back if their positions were reversed. As a compromise he resolved to hit the fellow on the back of the head and put him out of action with one blow. This was, after all, no time to be squeamish. He gripped his automatic by the muzzle and raised his arm to bring the butt down on the German's head. But he must have made some noise or the movement must have caught the corner of the German's eye, for he looked round sharply. For a brief moment their eyes met. Into the German's eyes dawned an understanding of the situation. Before Ginger could even begin to suspect his intention, he had kicked the rudder-bar and dragged the control column back into his stomach.

The aircraft responded in the manner for which it had been designed. With motors howling, its nose swung up and round in an almost vertical climbing turn. Indeed, it nearly went over on its back. To keep on his feet Ginger had to drop his gun and cling to the back of the pilot's seat with both hands; but even so, centrifugal force tore him clear so that he was flung sideways. The German, who had not troubled to strap himself in, was thrown half into the second pilot's seat and half on the floor; and there for a moment he was held, as was Ginger, by the tremendous pressure. Inherent stability was now bringing the Dragon out of its stall. The pressure was so great that Ginger thought they would both go through the bottom of the machine. The German was reaching for something in his pocket - presumably a gun - at the absurdly slow rate of a slow-motion film. Ginger, expecting the machine to hit the ground at any moment, got him by the body and hung on. Wrestling in a furious clinch, they got up together, only to fall backwards into the cabin. The machine wallowed like a wounded whale.

Locked in fierce embrace, they surged up and down the cabin. Still locked, they fell, and rolled towards the tail. Their weight caused the nose to rise, with the result that the machine stalled again, and then plunged earthwards like a stone. Torn apart by the rush through space, the two antagonists were flung against the bulkhead that divided the cabin from the cockpit. A yard away Ginger saw his automatic lying on the floor. He snatched it up. He saw the German on his knees, taking aim at him with a revolver. Ginger's pistol spat. The look of hate on the German's face turned to wonder and he pitched forward and lay still. Gasping, Ginger staggered to the window and looked out. The aircraft was gliding steeply towards the ground, covered in waving grass, less than a hundred feet below.

Ginger leapt to the cockpit. Reaching over, for there was no time to get into the seat, he pulled the stick back, and as the machine responded opened up the engines. And there for a few seconds he stood, wild-eyed and panting fro m shock and exhaustion, while the airscrews clawed their way to a safer altitude. A glance showed the German was still lying sprawled on the floor, so he got into the cockpit and, still breathing heavily, took the aircraft up to five thousand feet. His eyes searched the sky for the other Dragon Moth. He breathed a sigh of relief as he located it. His biggest fear was of losing it, or that someone on board might have noticed the peculiar behaviour of the machine following it. He put on a course to follow it, and as the machine was trimmed for level flight, he was able to leave the controls and return to the German pilot.

The man was dead. A tiny blue hole above the left eyebrow showed where life had fled, leaving a faint expression of surprise on the countenance, so suddenly had the end come. Ginger reflected grimly that it was for the best. One thing that he had not taken into account was how he would dispose of the man if he had succeeded in making him a prisoner.

Observing for the first time that the dead German wore a uniform of some kind under his flying kit, Ginger stripped him of his jacket and trousers. Hastily, he threw off his own clothes and put on those of the German. Then he opened the cabin door and pushed the body and his discarded clothes out. The business disgusted him, but it was necessary.

By now it was nearly dark. He could only just make out the dim shape of the other Dragon Moth. However, it had switched its navigation lights on, so there was no danger of losing sight of it. Suddenly, it dipped its nose down and began to descend. Below, landing lights sprang up along a landing strip and a floodlight flung a path of radiance across it. Ginger circled the aerodrome while the other Dragon Moth landed, then followed it down. He could see the Dragon Moth being pulled into one of a row of canvas hangars. He taxied up to the hangars, switched off and jumped down, trusting to the gathering darkness to conceal his identity. To his surprise and relief, the ground crew who came hurrying up to take charge of the Dragon Moth took little notice of him. It seemed that von Stalhein had already given them orders as to the disposal of the machine.

Ginger looked about him. Some distance away from the canvas hangars were a cluster of huts. Resisting the temptation to break into a run he began to walk towards them. Ten yards, fifteen yards, and still the challenge that he expected did not come. It struck him as quite incredible. All he could think was, the sheer brazen effrontery of what he was doing was seeing him through. And that was what Biggles, who favoured such methods, relied on.

The buildings appeared to be of the temporary sort, being built of rough timber apparently cut locally, and roofed with thatch or corrugated iron. One was long and low, and Ginger took to be the troops' bunkhouse and mess. There were also a number of smaller buildings. Yellow patches of light were starting to show from open doors or windows. A few people were moving about.

Ginger found it all very confusing. Where was Biggles? Somewhere about the camp, he had no doubt, presumably locked up in a prison hut. He began to look about, seeking a hut guarded by a sentry - for it seemed impossible that Biggles would not be under guard, if he was still alive - but in the absence of moonlight nothing could be made out distinctly. In the darkness, and in the absence of any knowledge of the layout of the camp it was a nerve-racking business. All the buildings seemed to look alike in the dim light. The situation had assumed a similarity to one of those frightful nightmares when one frantically goes on and on trying to do something, but all the time getting further and further away from success.

Ginger's head began to throb and he found it difficult to think at all. His brain seemed to have stopped working. He only knew that he was running out of time. The Germans would soon be gathering in their mess for their evening meal and the absence of the man he had shot would be noticed. There would be a search for the missing man.

He had almost given up to despair when he saw the silhouette of a familiar slim figure standing out black against the light flooding from an open doorway. Von Stalhein was leaning against the door of a hut, a spiral of smoke rising from the long cigarette holder which he held between his fingers. Wildly, Ginger contemplated the possibility of forcing the German, at the muzzle of his gun, to take him to the place where Biggles was held captive and there ordering the release of the prisoner. He had seen that sort of thing on the films, one man obediently obeying the orders of another who walks beside him with a revolver in his pocket, the muzzle prodding the victim's ribs. But he realised now that while this may look all very simple from the comfortable seat of a theatre, in actual fact the chances of success were remote. If he had been in a more rational state he would have immediately dismissed the idea from his mind as utterly impracticable. As it was, his hand was tightening around the butt of his automatic when to his dismay two armed soldiers suddenly appeared around the corner of the hut. Even in his present desperate mood, Ginger knew he could not take on three men, two armed with rifles. He was nearly overcome by a sense of his own helplessness.

The soldiers came to a halt in front of von Stalhein and saluted. Von Stalhein returned the salute and then addressed them in the harsh peremptory tones which German officers employ towards subordinates. Ginger's heart leapt, for although he would not have claimed to be able to speak German fluently, he understood enough to follow that von Stalhein had ordered the _Englander_, which in the circumstances Ginger took to refer to Biggles, to be brought to him. The soldiers saluted again, and then turned away. Von Stalhein went into the hut.

With renewed hope, Ginger crept towards the hut and a moment later he was crouching against its rough end wall. There was a single window in it. It was open. Inch by inch he edged along the wall until he came to the window. He held his breath as he peeped into the room, for there was no blind or other obstruction to interfere with his view. The hut was divided into two parts, one furnished in the manner of an office and the other as a bed-sitting room. Clearly, the building was von Stalhein's quarters. Ginger was looking into the bed-sitting room, but he could see the section used as an office through a half-open door which connected the two rooms. He caught a glimpse of von Stalhein, with his back turned to Ginger, apparently looking for something in a filing cabinet.

Ginger looked swiftly to left and right, and then swung his legs over the sill and darted towards the clear space behind the half-open connecting door.


	13. Hot work in cold blood

**Chapter 13**

**Hot work in cold blood**

Just as Ginger reached his refuge behind the door he heard the tramp of feet approaching; at least three persons he guessed from the noise. To his satisfaction he found that by placing his eyes in line with the space between the door and the jamb he could see into the room, which was far less risky than peeping round the edge of the door, where he might be seen if any one in the room looked in that direction. Through his peep-hole he saw Biggles, as he had hoped, standing quietly at ease. Flanking him were two German soldiers, with their rifles drawn into their sides and obviously acting as an escort. To Ginger's consternation he saw that Biggles was still handcuffed.

At a desk in the centre of the room sat von Stalhein. He gestured to the chair which stood in front of the desk. "Sit down, Major Bigglesworth," he said quietly. "I regret that I must continue to subject you to the indignity of manacles. I recall what happened the last time that I was foolish enough to take a set of handcuffs off you. Do I make myself clear?"

"Quite. May I trouble you for a cigarette?"

"Certainly." Von Stalhein pushed his cigarette case and a box of matches across the desk. Then he fixed his eyes on Biggles' face, and spoke again. "For the last time, I will offer you certain considerations in return for information concerning the whereabouts of your friends, and the extent of the knowledge that British Intelligence has of our operations here."

"And for the last time, von Stalhein, nothing doing. You should know me better than that."

"As you wish. You will now be interrogated by Herr Commandant Schultz, personally. The Commandant assures me that his methods have never failed. I trust my meaning is now plain," returned von Stalhein.

Biggles looked straight into the blue eyes opposite. "What's the matter with you?" he inquired curiously. "We've fought in the past, you and I, but we fought fair. Even in that branch of service in which we are presently engaged there were certain rules. Kill your man in a fight, yes, but we did not extract information by torture."

A flush swept across von Stalhein's prominent cheekbones. "Things are different now," he replied harshly.

To say that Ginger was horrified by this would be to put it mildly. His first thought, when he had recovered from the mental confusion into which the conversation that he had overheard had thrown him, was that now, if ever, was the moment to effect a rescue. He did not think too far ahead. The first thing was to get Biggles away from his guards; after that matters would have to take their course. He saw that all eyes were on the prisoner. For a second he waited to steady himself, and then, taking a deep breath, he prepared for action, his automatic in his hand.

At that moment there was an interruption. Footsteps were heard, and Ginger hastily stepped back into his hiding place. Two men entered the room. One was a heavily built man of middle age. He held a revolver in his hand. Ginger guessed, correctly, that this man was Schultz. The other was clearly another captive, for Schultz jabbed the revolver in his ribs with unnecessary violence.

From his figure, the prisoner was a mere youth. His face might once have been handsome, but was now black and blue with bruises. His lips were split and swollen. He was clad only in light cotton trousers and a torn white shirt, which was covered in ugly brown stains. His hands had been tied together behind his back, and he stumbled as he walked.

Schultz addressed Biggles in English. "Are you prepared to talk?"

Biggles rose to his feet. "I will tell you nothing, Schultz," he replied. "Go ahead. Do what you like."

"You will be sorry."

"No," stated Biggles. "Whatever you do I shall not be sorry."

Schultz smiled cynically, then barked an order to the two German soldiers who formed Biggles' escort. They seized the bound man who had entered the room with Schultz and forced him to his knees.

Von Stalhein had also risen to his feet and stood watching the scene with his usual frigid calm, apparently unmoved. Ginger watched, puzzled. He did not know what would happen next, but he felt that the strange scene portended a grim drama.

Schultz stepped close to the kneeling man. Quite deliberately, he thrust the muzzle of his revolver against the back of the man's neck and pulled the trigger. There was a loud report, and the man slumped to the floor. A pale wreath of blue powder smoke drifted up. Again the revolver barked. The body on the floor gave a convulsive shudder and then lay still.

For a moment nobody moved or spoke. Then Schultz turned to von Stalhein. "Have this mess cleaned up," he ordered.

Von Stalhein gave a curt order to the two soldiers and they took the dead man by the feet and dragged him through the doorway. Von Stalhein followed them. He closed the door behind him.

Schultz turned to Biggles. "Observe what happens to prisoners who are obstinate," he said blandly. "Does that help you to find your tongue?"

"You scum," said Biggles. His voice was thin but clear, and as taut as a bow-string with passion.

Without warning, without the slightest hint of what he intended, Schultz's left arm flew out like a piston rod straight into Biggles' stomach. The blow was followed by another, from the right fist. It took Biggles in the face with a vicious smack and stretched him on his back on the floor. He lay still. Blood flowed from his nose across his face to make a little pool on the floor.

To Ginger the scene was no longer real. For the last few seconds he had stood like a man stricken with paralysis. Now, one searing impulse of cold fury set his nerves tingling and drew his lips back from his teeth in a mirthless grin. Actuated by rage, life and movement returned to his limbs. He leapt through the connecting doorway like an avenging angel. In his right hand was his automatic. He brought it down on Schultz's head with the full force of his hatred for all Nazis.

Everything seemed to go black, and just what happened after that was never clear in his mind. The next thing he could recall was hearing Biggles' voice. It sounded anxious, and it restored him to something like normal.

"Take it easy, Ginger," said Biggles softly.

"Good Lord, what a mess," whispered Ginger, looking around. "Did I do that?"

"I'm afraid so, laddie."

Across the floor lay a man in an attitude so shockingly grotesque that it could mean only one thing. The knees were drawn up into the stomach, and the hands were raised, with fingers bent like claws, as if to protect the face. The head rested in a pool of blood. Blood was everywhere. One glance at the bared teeth and staring eyes settled the question of whether the man might still be alive. It was Schultz, although he was only just recognisable.

Ginger looked down at his hands. They were spattered with blood. He realised that he must have gone on hitting Schultz after he was dead. He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him and for a horrible moment he thought he was going to faint. He nearly did. But he managed to reach a chair and sitting down on it, allowed his head to sag between his knees - which was the best thing he could have done.

The nausea passed. He sat up, but he still felt weak and shaky. He saw that Biggles was kneeling by the body removing a set of keys from Schultz's belt.

"Unlock these handcuffs, will you?" requested Biggles.

With trembling fingers, Ginger did so. Then he looked at Biggles. "Shouldn't we be getting out of this shambles?" he questioned.

Biggles shook his head. "There's no hurry. These may be von Stalhein's quarters but he'll keep away until he thinks Schultz has finished with me. This is probably the safest place around here for miles. How are you feeling?"

"Awful. I don't know what came over me."

"I do. I've seen it before."

There was a pause. Biggles soaked his handkerchief in a jug of water that stood on von Stalhein's desk. With it he carefully removed the blood from Ginger's hands.

"Is your arm still troubling you?" he asked.

Ginger nodded. "A bit," he admitted. "My head hurts, too."

Biggles felt his forehead and frowned. "You're still running a slight temperature," he observed. "You'd better drink some of this water."

"Who was that poor devil Schultz murdered?" asked Ginger presently.

"An Argentinan fellow, Jose. I was slung into quod with him for a while when I first got here."

"How did he get mixed up in this horrible mess?"

"He is - was - one of the Argentinian workers at the diamond mine. He has a sister called Conchita. Apparently she's very pretty. She's engaged to another fellow who works at the mine and she came up to the work site a couple of days ago to see him about something. It seems Schultz saw Conchita and tried fooling around with her. Jose objected. Quite properly, too. In Spanish countries family honour is a very serious thing. Once a marriage has been arranged for a girl it's absolutely forbidden for her to have anything to do with another man. She mayn't dance with one even if her mother is with her. The upshot was, there was a bit of a fuss in which a couple of Argentinians were killed. Then there was a full scale riot. That was the trouble that was responsible for von Stalhein hurrying back here from Puerto Guano. Anyway, Conchita's fiance got her away safely but Jose was caught. Schultz was peeved about the whole thing. You saw what he did to Jose before he shot him. Typical Nazi beastliness."

Biggles continued, "We've had some experience of trouble with plain unvarnished savages from whom one doesn't expect anything but murder, but these Nazi thugs take the prize for barbarity. Now that I know what the swine are really like I'm looking forward to having another crack at them."

Ginger glanced at the body lying on the floor and shuddered. "I still feel sick about this," he said miserably.

Biggles looked at Ginger compassionately. "I can understand that. But don't knock your pan out about it."

He continued, "Schultz was one of these Gestapo torturers we've heard about. A real brute, and a drunk as well, if I'm not mistaken. I imagine he only got the command of this operation because he's a good member of the Nazi party. By Jove, you might think von Stalhein is a bit of a skunk, but compared to a swine like Schultz he's a gentleman. The two of them seem to have hated each other like poison, at any event."

"Why would they hate each other?" wondered Ginger.

Biggles curled his lips. "That's obvious if you know anything about German character. Von Stalhein is an officer from an old Prussian military family. It would be gall and wormwood for him to have to take orders from a drunken oaf like Schultz. Schultz would have hated von Stalhein for being an aristocrat with ten times the amount of brain that he had."

There was another pause. Then Biggles asked, "How did you get here, anyway? You were just about in time. Things were beginning to look extremely dim."

"I hid in our machine. The Huns didn't search it very thoroughly. I don't think it occurred to them that there might be anyone in it. Von Stalhein detailed someone to fly it here, and on the way over there was a little dispute as to who should do the flying - and I won. I put the German pilot's togs on and the ground staff didn't look at me twice. It was getting dark, of course, by the time that I landed."

Biggles started. "Do you mean to tell me that O'Neilson's machine is here? At the landing strip?"

"Yes." Ginger looked surprised at Biggles' vehemence.

"That's grand," declared Biggles. "We still have a chance of getting O'Neilson's Dragon Moth back to him tonight. I like to keep my promises. Would you be able to find your way back to the landing strip? They put a blindfold over my eyes so I couldn't see a thing."

"Definitely," declared Ginger.

"Then if you feel up to it, we'll get going."

Ginger was glad to be on the move. They slipped out of the window through which Ginger had entered the building and cautiously made their way back towards the hangars. The moon was only just coming up over the horizon and the shadows were still deep. Soon they were creeping along the back of the canvas hangars that Ginger had noticed when he arrived.


	14. Biggles gets busy

**Chapter 14**

**Biggles gets busy**

Swiftly, but as silently as two ghosts, Biggles and Ginger made their way along the back of the canvas hangars, Ginger leading the way, until they reached the end of the row of hangars. Ginger touched Biggles on the arm and sank to the ground in a patch of deep shadow against the wall of the hangar. Biggles joined him. Ginger realised with surprise that it was a beautiful night, crisp but not cold, and windless. The rising moon was nearly full and made the scene a picture of pale blue light and hard black shadows. It was not yet light enough to read a newspaper, as the saying is, but it was possible to see clearly for a considerable distance. His head had cleared, and he felt much better. Some distance away, presumably from some pool or rivulet, there suddenly came the croaking of frogs, making an astonishing amount of noise for creatures so small.

Ginger spoke in a normal voice, so as to be heard above the noise of the frogs. "I think they put the Dragon into this one, at the end of the row."

"Are you sure?" replied Biggles.

Ginger hesitated. "No, I'm not sure," he confessed. "I didn't hang around in case one of the ground crew spotted me for a stranger."

Biggles frowned. "We've run into a knotty problem. The Boche are hardly likely to let us roam about at will looking for our machine, and there a deuce of a lot of these hangars. Jose told me there are half a dozen Messerschmitts based here - he didn't know what kind of machines they were, of course, but he described them to me. I'd say that the entire complement of machines at Puerto Guano was moved over here. Del Vargos must be in this racket up to his ears. No doubt he gets his cut of the money. There would be pickings in this little scheme for corrupt officials from one end of South America to the other."

"Why so many machines?"

"The diamond mine is safe from anything except air attack. And it's more vulnerable than you might suppose. If you knew that it was on the headwaters of the Brizo Sur it would be easy to find. Jose told me the Boche have dammed the river so they can get at the diamonds in the gravel from the bed of the river as well as the banks. One bomb in the right place would blow the dam away and cause the whole of the diggings to be washed out. Von Stalhein would know as well as you or I that a Beaufighter has got just enough range to get here and back from Port Stanley. He's taking no chances of that happening. Jose told me there are anti-aircraft guns here as well - also from Puerto Guano, I imagine. You saw the empty gun pits there."

"Are the pilots Argentinian or German?"

"German. The only Argentinians here are the labourers who actually dig up the stones."

Ginger returned to the problem with which they were faced.

"How about pinching a couple of Messerchmitts? They would suit us better than the Dragon. Even if we were to get away in the Dragon, we wouldn't get far with a pack of fighters after us. I've survived being shot down in an unarmed machine once already, and I don't fancy my luck with getting away with it a second time."

"You're forgetting that the Dragon belongs to O'Neilson's firm. How's he going to explain the loss of the machine to his directors? Worse, if it's left here von Stalhein will soon be hot on the trail of its owner. No, we've got to try to get the Dragon back to Vicuna if it's humanly possible."

"So, what now?"

"We shall have to find a way of getting into these hangars."

Biggles felt for his jack-knife, with the intention of using it to cut a slit in the canvas of the back wall of the hangar. Then he remembered that his pockets had been emptied at Puerto Guano of everything except his cigarette case and a box of matches.

"D'you happen to have a pocket knife with you?" he asked Ginger.

"A small one," replied Ginger. Guessing Biggles' intention, he added. "It won't cut through this kind of heavy canvas."

Biggles turned his attention to the ground. The canvas had been well fastened down, and the earth was as hard as rock. Without tools it was clearly impossible to dig a way under the canvas.

"Give me your knife, Ginger," ordered Biggles. "We shall have to give it a try."

It was heavy going with a small knife on which it was impossible to get any real purchase; and having to operate in the dark did not make things easier. By the time Biggles had made a small tear in the canvas his forefinger had a blister on it.

"Here, let me have a go," demanded Ginger.

Biggles passed the knife to Ginger and bound up his blistered finger, and his thumb, with a strip torn from his handkerchief. He gave Ginger a strip from the handkerchief as well, and advised him to do the same.

The frogs ceased their croaking, as suddenly and mysteriously as they had begun it. Through the sudden silence came the sound of measured footsteps slowly approaching. Biggles threw himself flat on the ground, dragging Ginger with him. The footsteps were almost upon them now, and to move would have been fatal; so, hardly daring to breathe, with their faces in their arms and their bodies pressed as close as possible to the earth, they lay still and waited. Ginger's nerves twitched as the footsteps stopped. There was the unmistakable thud of a rifle butt being grounded. Then came a sound so natural and human that Ginger nearly laughed aloud with relief - it was the sound of a man sneezing into a handkerchief. The footsteps resumed, and receded into the distance. Biggles sat up, cautiously.

Cupping his hands around Ginger's ear he whispered, "That sentry is a damnable nuisance. We were nearly caught napping then. It was a good thing for us those frogs decided to shut up when they did."

"I think the fellow's gone now," whispered Ginger in reply. He could see the man quite clearly in the moonlight. He was now quite some distance away. Another man, also armed with a rifle, appeared to be coming to meet him.

An awful thought struck Ginger. "Do you suppose this means von Stalhein knows that you've escaped?"

Biggles shook his head. "No. If he had, there'd be a rare old hue and cry. This is just a routine patrol. I'd say these two are doing a beat up and down both sides of the hangars. That's why we didn't see them when we got here; they were around the other side. Our man will come back this way again."

Biggles' prediction proved correct.

The sentry met his half-section, had a few words with him and then strolled back, passing within ten feet of where Biggles and Ginger lay. As soon as he was at a safe distance, work was resumed. They took it in turns, and slowly the canvas succumbed to their onslaught, but the sentry passed them twice more before they managed to cut a flap big enough to craw l through into the interior of the structure. It was in complete darkness.

Biggles struck a match. It flared up, dazzling them. As their eyes grew accustomed to the light they looked about eagerly and saw the dim shape of a fuselage looming in the darkness. The match burnt down and scorched Biggles' finger, and he dropped it with a mutter of annoyance.

"Strike another match," urged Ginger.

"Wait a minute. I'll tear a strip off my shirt. With any luck the stuff will burn," replied Biggles. There came a noise of tearing material, and another match blazed.

"That's better," Ginger declared, as the cloth flared up and Biggles held up the piece of burning stuff in order to throw the light as far as possible. As a means of illumination the strip of shirt left much to be desired, but in its smoky yellow glow they saw a Dragon Moth only a few paces away. Going closer, Biggles saw with satisfaction that its registration marks were AL-HRU.

Lighting another strip from Biggles' shirt, they made their way towards the front of the hangar, which consisted of flimsy folding doors constructed of canvas over light wooden framing. Surreptitiously, Biggles opened them a crack and peered out. As he did so, through the still night air there came the sound of a commotion. A voice, raised in harsh reproof, was speaking in German. The voice was unmistakable. It could belong to only one man. Ginger had heard it too often to have any doubt about it. It was that of von Stalhein, and that he was in a cold fury was clear from the bitter, biting quality of his tone.

Although there was no wind at ground level, scudding clouds at high altitude had temporarily covered the moon and it was pitch black. Then the clouds blew away and they could see a small hut some distance away along the landing strip. In the bright moonlight a soldier could be seen standing stiffly to attention in front of it, while von Stalhein lashed him with his tongue.

"What an infernal pest that fellow is," muttered Ginger savagely.

"He's making his evening rounds of the camp," murmured Biggles. "Any competent officer would do just that."

Ginger heard the word _benzine_ repeated several times. "What's von Stalhein saying about petrol, Biggles, I can't speak German like you can," questioned Ginger.

"He's reprimanding that soldier for smoking while on guard duty at the petrol dump," replied Biggles, almost smiling. "Something has put Erich in a nasty mood. He's threatened the silly fool with detention, loss of pay and a flogging if he's caught at it again."

Von Stalhein concluded his invective, and turned on his heel. Biggles and Ginger watched as he walked back along the airstrip towards the hangars. Ginger's heart sank as he saw von Stalhein stop, only a few yards away from them and directly opposite the chink in the hangar doors. It was almost as if he sensed that something was amiss. He cast a penetrating look in their direction. Stone-cold with the nervous tension of the moment, Ginger brought his automatic out of his pocket, ready to shoot if necessary. He felt Biggles' hand close warningly around his wrist. Then there came shouts that rose to a clamour from the direction of the German camp. Von Stalhein listened for a moment and then broke into a run, heading in the direction of the camp.

"It sounds as if they\rquote ve discovered that their bird has flown," observed Biggles calmly.

Ginger moved impatiently. "Let's get going while the coast is clear."

"Not so fast. I'm going to set fire to the petrol dump."

Ginger stared aghast. "Are you crazy? That will really stir up a hornets' nest," he protested.

"That's the whole idea," replied Biggles. "The people here will be so busy making sure the fire doesn't spread to the hangars they'll have something else to think of besides chasing after us."

He continued. "This is the plan. I'll set the petrol dump alight. As soon as you see the flames, get the hangar doors open and taxi the Dragon out on to the landing strip. The engines won't be stone cold, so you can reckon on them starting easily. I'll run back and join you. Then we'll push off back to Vicuna."

"But ..."

Biggles ignored the interruption. "Give me your gun. Here are the matches, you'll need them."

Ginger knew better than to argue. He handed over the automatic. Biggles took it, and stepped out of the hangar. A veil of cloud had covered the moon again, so he ran blindly up the runway along the line of the hangars in the general direction of where he knew the hut to be. The figure of the sentry, armed with a rifle, bayonet fixed, loomed up in the darkness. _"Wie gehts da?"_ rapped out a voice. A split second later, before Biggles could reply, there was a shout from behind. The moon chose that moment to come out from behind the cloud cover, flooding the world with its pale radiance. "Stop that man," roared a voice.

The sentry took a pace nearer. "Who are you?" he asked suspiciously, for he had, of course, heard the shout. At the same time he dropped the point of his bayonet, ready to thrust.

With a swift movement of his arm Biggles knocked the muzzle of the rifle aside. The cartridge exploded. The blaze nearly blinded him. Before he had fully recovered his sight the man jumped forward and knocked him over backwards. Biggles fired as he fell, and the man slipped forward like a swimmer diving into deep water. Picking himself up, Biggles looked around quickly and saw a couple of men racing towards him. They were still seventy or eighty yards away. Biggles paid no further attention to them, and ran into the hut. He saw with satisfaction that it was piled high with petrol drums. Stacked at the front of the hut, however, were a number of smaller petrol cans. It took him only a moment to remove the cap of one and splash the contents over the walls and floors of the hut. He backed to the door, laying a trail of spirit, and then held the muzzle of his gun close against the ground where the petrol had been spilled, at the same time leaping back, for he knew what was likely to happen. Accustomed as he was to handling aviation spirit, the result startled him. There was a terrific whoof as the petrol exploded. Some shots were fired. Where the bullets went Biggles did not know, nor did he care. He sprinted back along the airstrip towards the hangars.

Meanwhile, Ginger had not been idle. Entering the cockpit of the Dragon he made a quick survey of the instruments by the light of a struck match. As he feared, yet expected, for the machine had not been refuelled since it had landed, the tanks were nearly half empty. However, he knew this would give them sufficient petro l to reach Vicuna with some margin for safety. He then proceeded to put the machine in a condition for a quick start-up and take-off. This occupied him for some minutes. Then he made his way to the front of the hangar and prepared to follow Biggles' instructions. He heard shouting, and the sound of running feet. He heard the sound of the petrol exploding, and he saw the flames. The fire was of sufficient size to cast a lurid glow over everything, and he could feel the heat of it on his face even at that distance.

Ginger ran back to the Dragon and started its engines. He eased the throttle open and the aircraft began to move. As he taxied out of the hangar more men came running up from the direction of the German camp. Naturally, they swerved towards the Dragon. Ginger swung the tail of the machine around, throwing a blinding cloud of dust into their faces. He saw a figure, whom he now perceived to be Biggles, racing towards the nose of the machine. Remembering that the cabin door was closed, he jumped out of the cockpit and ran aft to open it. He stretched a hand out towards Biggles, to help him aboard. At that moment a rifle cracked, but he did not hear it. The world seemed to explode inside his head in a sheet of orange flame. The flame faded slowly to purple, and then to black. He fell backward and lay still.

When Ginger opened his eyes again he could see nothing but a large white object. Focusing his eyes with an effort he made out the white object to be the figure of a nurse. He discovered that he was lying down on a bed in a white-painted room, and that filtered sunlight was streaming in through frosted windows.

The nurse bent over him. "Where am I?" he breathed.

"You're in hospital - in the sick bay at Port Stanley," the nurse told. "Your friends are waiting to see you. I'll tell them they can come in."

She left the room, and a moment later Algy and Bertie came in. They pulled chairs up to Ginger's bedside and sat down.

Said Bertie in a voice full of concern: "I say, old lad, are you all right?"

"I've got a splitting skull ache, otherwise I seem to be okay," whispered Ginger.

"Take it easy. Don't try to talk yet," said Algy.

Some minutes passed. When Ginger spoke again his voice was stronger and more lucid. "How long have I been unconscious?" he inquired.

"Hours, by Jove, absolutely hours," replied Bertie. "It's after nine o'clock in the morning and you've been out like the proverbial light-bulb since last night."

"What happened?"

Algy spoke. "You were hit. By gosh, that was a close one. Another fraction of an inch and the bullet would have missed you altogether; a fraction the other way and it would have gone right through your head."

"Where's Biggles?"

"Gone to get something to eat, a wash and brush-up, and a general overhaul. He'll be here soon," said Algy.

"He told us how you got him away from that stinking polecat Schultz," murmured Bertie. "Good show, that, jolly good show."

There was a tap on the door, it opened, and Biggles walked in. He was wearing his R.A.F. uniform. He, too, dragged up a chair.

Ginger greeted Biggles with a weak grin. "So you pulled it off."

"Yes." Biggles' face cracked in an answering smile. "And singed my front hair off at the same time."

"You got the Dragon back to Vicuna?"

"It isn't much of a story. There was a bit of shooting but no serious damage to the machine. Just a couple of stray bullet holes. If von Stalhein sent up any Messerschmitts I didn't see them, and they obviously didn't see me. O'Neilson was waiting up for me and put out some flares. He was getting a bit anxious - he thought he'd never see his machine again. We put you into his car and drove down to the jetty. Algy and Bertie came over at dawn, as arranged, and here we are, nice and comfortable at Port Stanley."

"Not for long," put in Bertie, polishing his eyeglass industriously. "We're going over to hit von what's-his-name a wallop."

Ginger struggled into a sitting position.

"What's cooking?" he asked suspiciously.

"Pipe down, and I'll tell you," replied Biggles. "Raymond has provided us with three Sea Hurricanes - Hurricanes fitted with catapult spools - off an armed merchantman, the _Pauline_. You haven't forgotten Dick Denver, have you? He's still in the Merchant Service. He's first officer of the _Pauline_ these days, which normally does convoy duty with the ships taking foodstuffs, rubber and the like from South America to England. The _Pauline_ was diverted down to Port Stanley to drop off the Sea Hurricanes. We're going over to wipe out the Messerschmitts, either on the ground or in the air."

Biggles lit a cigarette before continuing. "By destroying the Huns' petrol supply we've hit them hard but we haven't knocked 'em out by any means. I don't like to leave a job half-done. Never leave your enemy while he's feeling sore; either depart or finish him off, or he'll come back and get you. That's what my first C.O. taught me, and I've always found it to be good policy."

There were nods of general agreement.

"Even with the 44 gallon drop tanks Sea Hurricanes only have a range of around 950 miles, and while that's enough to get over to the diamond mine and do some damage it's not enough for the round trip back to Port Stanley. I discussed the problem with O'Neilson, and it has been agreed that we'll land at Vicuna and refuel there before pressing on to the diamond mine."

"Three Sea Hurricanes? There are four of us," broke in Ginger. "Who's going with you, Biggles?"

"You're in no condition to fly, Ginger. Algy and Bertie will come with me."

Biggles turned to the others, and continued, "War isn't a personal matter but that blue-nosed Messerschmitt is my meat. You two will do what you can to keep my tail clear while I deal with it."

"Three Hurricanes against six Messerschmitts. That's about the right odds for a decent scrum," nodded Bertie approvingly. "But what's the fascination with the blue painted bird, old boy?"

"That's von Stalhein's machine. He's the head lad of this diamond digging operation, and if I can push him into the ground it should cause the rest of the outfit to go to pieces."

"Is von Stalhein likely to come up himself?" queried Algy, with a trace of surprise. "I wouldn't think he was much of a pilot."

"Possibly not," replied Biggles. "He served in a cavalry regiment before he was seconded to the Wilhelmstrasse. However, he doesn't lack physical courage, and he's no fool either. If he comes up with his boys it will be because he thinks he has a fair chance at getting a crack at us. Anyway, I've always said it's better to be a rotten pilot and a good shot than the other way about. Don't forget, that's how Manfred von Richthofen piled up such a big score in the last war. He was a pretty ordinary pilot but a brilliant shot. I remember that back in the old days at Zabala von Stalhein had a reputation as an excellent shot."

"An excellent shot at what?" sneered Algy sarcastically. "Combat flying is a different thing to potting at pheasants."

Bertie protested at this. "I used to do quite a bit of grouse shooting in Scotland – that's where I learned to shoot," he said. He added, "I mean to say, if you can pull down an old cock grouse whistling over at seventy miles an hour, jinking as he goes, you should be able to hit a thing the size of an aircraft."

"That may be so, but a Hurricane sporting eight machine guns is a different proposition to an unarmed civil machine," replied Algy coldly.

"For heaven's sake quit arguing," broke in Biggles impatiently. "We've no time to waste. The plan is that I shall go for the blue-nosed machine if we see it. Your job will be to keep the others busy."

Rising to his feet, he concluded, "There is this about it. We shall soon find out if Hurricanes are the real Hun-getters that Wilks claims them to be."

"When do you start?" Ginger wanted to know.

"Right now," replied Biggles. "I was only hanging about for a few minutes in the hopes that you'd come round before we left. Come on, you chaps. Cheerio, laddie."

Then he smiled. "Don't look so miserable, Ginger. We know the location of the diamond mine now and I've sent the information back to Raymond, so our precious lives won't be of such vital importance if we do get into a jam."

"You speak for yourself," growled Algy.

The others laughed.

"What about me," inquired Ginger plaintively. "Don't I get a look in?"

Biggles hesitated. "All right. I'll tell you what you can do," he offered. "When the M.O. clears you to fly you can come over to Vicuna in the flying-boat. This looks like being a tough show, and if anyone cracks up and can make it back to Vicuna you can bring them home."


	15. The enemy hits back

**Chapter 15**

**The enemy hits back**

For over two hours the three machines bored their way across the South Atlantic Ocean, devouring space at a steady two hundred and fifty miles an hour. Biggles was weary, despite having dozed during the trip across from Vicuna to Port Stanley earlier that day, and his face was beginning to show signs of the strain imposed by the fast-moving events of the last forty-eight hours. He was driving himself and the others hard, and he knew it. While he was anxious to strike, as the saying has it, while the iron was hot, he knew that the odds were stacked heavily against them. And although he did not allow himself to dwell upon the possibility of Algy or Bertie becoming a casualty, the fear of it lurked in the background of his mind. It was characteristic of him that h e did not think of himself.

It was not an ideal day for flying. As Biggles approached the coast he noticed that the wind had swung around to the south, and was bringing up a good deal of cloud. A glance at the watch on the instrument-board, and a quick mental calculation, told him they were approaching their destination, but he was compelled to go down under the cloud-bank in order to pick up a landmark to make sure that he was on his course. When he did so he caught his breath. Conspicuous against the white clouds was a spreading grey smudge, dead ahead.

An uneasy feeling that something was very wrong swept over Biggles. He toyed with the flap of his radio transmitter, but remembering his own order for wireless silence, allowed it to fall back. Instead, he glanced at his reflector to make sure that the machines behind him were still in place. The other two Hurricanes were roaring along behind him as if glued to his wing tips.

The smudge was explained when they reached Vicuna. Where the hangars and the radio building had stood was a smoking wreck of twisted girders. A plume of black oily smoke was still ascending into the air from the place where the fuel and oil had been stored.

Biggles' hand moved to the throttle, and as the defiant roar of the aircraft dropped to a deep-throated growl its sleek nose tilted downwards. Soon the three machines were circling low over the airstrip. A little distance from the charred remains of the hangars, a small group of people were looking upward at the Hurricanes. They stood around a long slim object shrouded in a dark blanket. Biggles' body seemed to go cold, and his nerves to contract, for he had seen the sight too many times not to know what it was - a human body.

Biggles landed first and taxied straight up the group standing around the body. Almost before the machine had stopped running he had switched off the engine, leapt to the ground, slipped out of his parachute harness, and started sprinting towards them. A tall, spare, grey-haired man detached himself from the others and hurried to meet him.

"I'm Grivin, the general manager here," he cried. "Who the devil are you, sir, and what the dickens is going on? Has war broken out? I mean, war with Argentina?"

Biggles ignored the question. "What happened?" he rapped out.

"Argentinian troops have been here. They set fire to the place. I don't know the details; I've only just got here myself. Consuelo - that is, Mrs O'Neilson - the wife of our chief pilot, and Pedro, one of the mechanics, seem to have been the only people at the airstrip at the time. When the others saw the smoke they all ran up, but a couple of the soldiers kept them back at rifle point. The soldiers left in a truck about an hour ago. Apparently there was one of their aircraft here as well. The mechanic, Pedro, has been shot - killed - and Mrs O'Neilson is in a state of shock. She's been taken to her house and one of the women is looking after her."

By now Algy and Bertie had also landed their machines, and came running up.

"Where's O'Neilson?" demanded Biggles.

"Gone. He left early this morning. Had to fly the veterinary surgeon to another one of the Company's properties to look into an outbreak of foot rot."

The sound of another aero engine was heard. All eyes turned upward. A Gypsy Moth appeared, flying low. It landed and O'Neilson jumped down. He hurried straight to the body lying on the ground and lifted the edge of the blanket. Then he stood up and looked at Biggles, white-faced. "That was Pedro. He was a good man," he said, breathing heavily.

"I'm terribly sorry, O'Neilson," said Biggles quietly. "I thought you might get a rap over the knuckles from your boss for getting mixed up in this business. I didn't expect anything like this."

O'Neilson turned to Grivin. "Is anyone else hurt?" he demanded.

Grivin shook his head. "No, but your wife is in a bit of a state. She was here when it happened." He indicated the body. "Not a nice experience for a woman. You had better go up and see her straight away."

Without wasting further words, O'Neilson set off at a run for his bungalow. Biggles, Algy and Bertie hastened after him.

Mrs O'Neilson was standing on the steps of the house. Seeing her husband, she rushed to him and, regardless of onlookers, they flung their arms about each other in a fervent embrace. Mrs O'Neilson burst into a torrent of Spanish.

"Let's go inside, and Consuelo can tell us exactly what happened," suggested Biggles.

Prompted by her husband, Mrs O'Neilson proceeded to tell her story, haltingly, in a mixture of Spanish and English. The gist of was this. She had heard an aeroplane approaching the Vicuna landing strip. Thinking it must be her husband returning, she had hurried over to the airstrip to meet him. Pedro had joined her there. She had been puzzled when a machine, which she recognised as being of the same kind as the Dragon Moth, had landed, because she was sure that Pat had departed in the smaller machine. She had discussed this with Pedro, and they had gone to look in the hangar to confirm that the Dragon Moth was still there. It was. By the time that they came out of the hangar, the other machine had taxied up to the buildings. Half a dozen armed soldiers had emerged from the aircraft. They had spoken amongst themselves in a language that she did not understand. At the same time a lorry with Argentinian military markings had arrived on the airstrip. One of the men who had arrived in the aircraft, and who appeared to be their leader, had spoken to Pedro in Spanish, and had demanded to know where the petrol supply was kept.

"Can you describe this fellow," requested Biggles quietly. He was not greatly surprised when Consuelo gave a fair description of von Stalhein.

She resumed her story. Pedro had taken the soldiers to the building where the petrol drums were kept. A number of them had been loaded onto the lorry. Some of the smaller tins of petrol were loaded into the machine in which the intruders had arrived. Then O'Neilson's Dragon Moth had been dragged out of the hangar and loaded with more tins of petrol. Its engines had been started. When Pedro realised that the intruders intended to fly the machine away, he had protested. In fact, he had tried to stop them. There was a scuffle, and one of the soldiers had promptly shot him.

At this point Consuelo buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. Her husband looked on helplessly, miserably.

Biggles touched O'Neilson on the arm and said, "No need to ask her any more. We can guess the rest."

He got up and walked outside. Algy and Bertie followed him.

Biggles tapped a cigarette on the back of his hand and then threw it on the ground. He did not speak.

Algy's face was pale. "Von Stalhein had absolutely no right to do this," he said coldly.

Bertie, too, was pale and his eyes glittered frostily. "What a blighter the bounder must be," he muttered.

"Be fair," replied Biggles shortly. "We've broken the International Law of neutrality, too."

"It was my fault that poor devil of a mechanic has been killed," he continued. "I should never have dragged O'Neilson into this affair."

O'Neilson joined them. "It looks as if this is where you go home, Biggles," he observed soberly. "It's a bad show. If you go on you won't have enough juice to get back to Port Stanley, and there's not a drop of petrol left here - what the Huns didn't take away with them they destroyed."

"On the contrary, this is where we go after them," returned Biggles curtly. "This is only the first round. There's aviation spirit at Puerto Guano. We shall help ourselves to some of it. The lorry will hardly have had time to get back yet. With a heavy load it will be travelling slowly. It's a fair guess that there are no troops left at Puerto Guano."

"You're not serious," Algy exclaimed. "As soon as the Argentinians see us coming, they'll radio a message to the mine. If the Messerschmitts catch us on the ground there are likely to be some pyrotechnics with us in the middle of them."

"I was never more serious," replied Biggles. "It will take the Messerschmitts at least half an hour to reach Puerto Guano from the mine, flying at top speed. Very good. We should be waiting upstairs for them by then. We shan't go to meet them, but will try to get as much altitude as possible before they arrive. That should give us the advantage, because I expect that they'll be in too much of a hurry to waste time climbing for height."

Algy nodded. "Okay. I get it."

"Then let's get busy," replied Biggles.

Five minutes later the three Hurricanes took off and headed south. Biggles did not bother climbing for height, and the machines annihilated space as they raced low over rock and sand and coastal scrub. Biggles did not beat about the atmosphere; he went straight as an arrow for Puerto Guano.

When the Hurricanes arrived Biggles saw with relief that was no sign of the lorry on the airfield. The place seemed to be deserted, except for one man, who ran out of a building and stood staring upwards. Biggles dived low and fired a short burst. The bullets kicked up the dirt in a line near the man's feet, and he turned tail and fled back inside the building.

As soon as Biggles had landed he taxied to the underground fuel tank - the existence and location of which he had noted on the occasion of his previous visit to Puerto Guano - leapt down and removed the small man-hole cover. Frantically, he began working a small hand-pump. There had obviously once been a mechanical pump installed, but it appeared to have been removed. \par Algy and Bertie taxied up and they all took turns working the pump. Biggles' eyes went constantly to the western horizon and his ears strained to hear the hum of approaching aero engines. As soon as his tank was full, Biggles leapt back into his cockpit and shouted, "You two carry on. I'll try to keep the Messerschmitts off if they get here before you're topsides."

With that, he swung himself into the cockpit, started the engine, taxied tail-up down the bare dirt of the runway and swept like a winged torpedo into the air. Pulling the joystick back, he spiralled steadily upwards over the Puerto Guano airstrip. Biggles frowned when he saw that while the sky had cleared somewhat there was still a fair amount of loose cumulus about. There was a lot of broken cloud on the horizon, and scattered masses of it overhead. His hope was that none of the Messerschmitts would get home - although he knew that was optimistic - and the cloud cover would hinder that objective, by providing a hiding-place for the enemy machines.

Biggles knew the direction from which trouble would come, if it came, and his eyes switched continually between the western sky, and the scattered clouds below. Presently, to his relief, the two other Hurricanes appeared, and climbed up to meet him. They took up positions at his wing tips. But where were the Messerschmitts? Surely, if they were coming, they would have appeared by now? Then he saw what he was looking for. Two Messerschmitt 109s flying together, several thousand feet lower than the Hurricanes. They did not bother to thread their way through the scattered clouds, but came straight on. As he watched they vanished briefly into a cloud bank and reappeared on the other side. To the three Hurricanes they may have looked, as no doubt they were intended to look, easy victims; but Biggles was not deceived by so transparent a ruse. Long experience made him lift his eyes to the sky above, and it did not take him long to spot four more Messerschmitts flying in a ragged vee formation a couple of thousand feet above his own height. "Six," he mused. "That's probably the lot."

Biggles could tell the moment when the two lower flying Messerschmitts sighted the Hurricanes, for the leading machine altered course a trifle in their direction, and pointed its nose upwards. Concentrating his attention on the enemy machines, Biggles made out that the leader's nose was painted blue.

Biggles moistened his lips and braced his body. The time had come. He turned his head to look at Algy and Bertie in turn. They were both watching him. He nodded. Then, with his lips se t in a straight line by the strain of the impending action he thrust the control column forward. With a wail of protest the nose of the Hurricane tilted down until it was in line with the enemy machines. A swift glance upward showed the remaining four Messerschmitts coming down on top of him. Algy and Bertie were turning to meet them.

The enemy machines seemed to float up towards him as the distance closed between them. Biggles could see every detail of the two Messerschmitts clearly. He took the blue-nosed machine in his sights. But he held his fire. The range was still too long, and he had no ammunition to waste. The Messerschmitts opened fire, and tracers streamed upwards, cutting glittering white lines through the air between the Hurricane and the enemy machines, but not until he was within five hundred feet did Biggles' hand move to the firing button. He could feel bullets smashing through his wings and collision seemed inevitable, but he had no intention of turning away, for the first to turn away in head-on attack admits inferiority, and one of the first traditions laid down by the Flying Corps in the early days of air combat was "never turn".

At the last instant the Messerschmitts split and hurled past on either side of him. Biggles was round with the speed of light. He clung to the tail of the blue-nosed machine, firing short bursts until a shadow falling across him made him kick out his foot and fling the joystick hard over. Unprepared for the move, the enemy pilot swerved and overshot him. The Messerschmitt zoomed upwards, rolled onto its back, and then, with its engine still on, spun out of sight. A Hurricane – Bertie's - roared past, with its undercarriage wheels hanging at a lop-sided angle. Biggles waited for no more. He snatched a glance around, looking for the blue-nosed Messerschmitt. The sky was full of aircraft, banking, diving and zooming, but he caught a fleeting glimpse of the machine he sought disappearing into the side of a cloud. He plunged into the white, woolly vapour in pursuit.

As Biggles emerged on the far side of the cloud, he nearly collided with his quarry. He whirled round after it, and with a reckless abandon that he would not have considered employing in normal moments, dragged the stick back into his thigh. The enemy aircraft loomed into sight through the swirling arc of his propeller, and his guns spurted. At such short range it was almost impossible to miss. The nose of the blue-painted machine jerked upward spasmodically, which told him that the pilot had been hit. It fell over on to one wing, went into a spin, and plunged downwards. Biggles watched it suspiciously, for he knew that it might be a trick to deceive him. But it was no trick. A tiny spark of fire appeared, glowing ever brighter, and then there was a blinding flash of flame as the tanks of the German machine exploded.

Curiously, Biggles felt none of the elation such as he normally knew after a duel. The victory had been too easy. "The trouble with me is I'm getting old," he told himself moodily. He turned away, leisurely, and was still turning when a movement in his reflector caused him to move so fast that it seemed impossible that he could have found time to think. Kicking out his foot and flinging the joystick over on the same side, he spun round in a wild bank while a stream of tracer flashed past his wing tip. His mouth went dry at the narrowness of his escape. A split-second later and the bullets, fired from close range, must have riddled the Hurricane.

A machine howled past in the wake of the bullets and with a jolt Biggles recognised it as a Messerschmitt 110, a formidable twin-engined two-seater fighter-bomber, capable of doing an immense amount of damage. Thoughts crowded into Biggles' brain, although to his racing nerves the scene seemed to be moving in slow motion. He wondered where the Messerschmitt 110 had come from. He wondered why Jose had not mentioned it to him if it was based at the diamond mine. He concluded that as a non-airman Jose must have failed to appreciate the differences between the two types of German fighter, even as he saw the wicked black muzzles of the rear gunner's twin 7.92 mm machine guns swinging round to take the Hurricane in his sights at point blank range.

In such moments the brain works swiftly and the sight of jets of orange flame spurting from the guns was photographed on Biggles' mind even as he frantically kicked out his left foot, which brought him skidding round as though struck by a whirlwind. But there was no shaking off a man who knew his job. Biggles could hear the bullets ripping through his fuselage. Pieces of metal were leaping from his engine cowling and the re was a splintering jar as something crashed through his instrument panel. The compass flew to pieces, and the liquid that it contained spurted back in his face. Some went into his eyes, and he gasped at the pain.

He flew on blindly, trying desperately to see. Something lashed the Hurricane like a cat-o'-nine-tails; he felt the machine quiver, and the next moment he was spinning. He experienced a real spasm of fright as he realised that he was fighting for his life for the first time in a long while. He was paying the penalty for allowing the pilot of the Messerschmitt 110 to enjoy the supreme advantage of surprise. The Messerschmitt 110 must have been stalking him for some minutes while he was pre-occupied with the blue-nosed Messerschmitt 109. There was nothing wrong with that. It was all in the game, for in air combat there are no rules. All is fair. There is no question of hitting below the belt. There are no rounds. The formula is simple - get your man. How, when and where, doesn't matter as long as you get him.

Desperately, Biggles fought to get the nose of the machine up, and it came out of the spin. The Messerschmitt 110 had followed him down, and it was now firing the fixed guns mounted in its nose. Biggles spun again, deliberately, three times, and then spun again in the opposite direction, twice. When he came out of the spin the Messerschmitt 110 was still there, still firing at him.

Biggles knew he was going down under a hail of lead in just the same way as he had seen dozens of machines going down, as he himself had sent them down, and at that moment he thought - no, he was convinced - that the German had him cold. His reaction was one not uncommon with air fighters. Instead of trying to get out of that blasting stream of lead, he savagely shoved the stick forward and tried to ram his opponent, automatically pressing his thumb down on the brass firing-button on the top loop of the stick as his nose came into line with that of the other machine. He found himself straight in the track of his enemy, facing him head-on at a distance of not much more than a hundred yards. For a fleeting instant the air between the two machines was filled with tracer, and Biggles braced himself for the shock of collision.

At the last moment the Messerschmitt 110 swerved and for a moment it seemed that the two machines would pass unscathed. Then with agonising deliberation one of the Messerschmitt's airscrews bit into the very tip of Biggles' port wing. It was enough. The sheet metal began to tear like paper; and then the wing broke clean off. The fuselage of the Hurricane lurched violently, and then dropped earthward like a stone.

Pulling back the cockpit cover, Biggles scrambled out, and, as the machine lurched preparatory to its final plunge, he clutched the little brass ring that operated the ripcord of his parachute and launched himself into space. The Hurricane roared on past him as he sank easily and smoothly into the void. He felt his harness tighten as his downward progress was arrested, and looking up, he saw the billowing folds of the parachute mushroom out. Catching his breath, he looked about him. Accustomed as he was to the speed with which the scene can change in modern air combat, he was surprised to find that the only machine in sight was the Messerschmitt 110, going down in an erratic glide.

Biggles looked down, to take stock of the country below. He stared, blinked, and stared again as a dark green expanse of foam-lashed water met his horrified gaze. There could be no mistake. He was looking down at the sea. As he watched, he saw the fragments of his machine strike the water with a terrific splash.

He turned his head and saw - over his shoulder - a white line far behind him. It was the coast. He guessed it to be at least ten miles away.


	16. Marooned

**Chapter 16**

**Marooned**

Biggles realised that during the dogfight the machines must have drifted with the prevailing wind well out to sea. His eyes turned again to the crippled Messerschmitt 110, and he saw that it was making for a small island. Catching his breath, and thinking a mental prayer of thankfulness, he began pulling desperately at his parachute shrouds in an effort to steer himself towards the same island.

He could see a rookery of seals, lying on some flat, wave-splashed rocks which fringed the shore, and soon it was apparent that he would fall into the water, which now appeared to be rushing up towards him, only a few yards from these rocks. He braced himself to slip the quick-release gear the instant his legs dragged in the water, and slipping off the harness, he struck out towards the nearest rock.

Some instinct made him turn his head and look over his shoulder as he clutched at the barnacle-encrusted surface of the rock and began pulling himself up. Cutting through the water behind him was a huge, black, triangular-shaped dorsal fin. With his toes curling with horror, Biggles went up the side of the rock in a manner that would have been impossible in cold blood, and he felt something tug at the heel of his boot as he dragged himself above the water line. He flung himself flat on the rock, panting for breath, as the shark swept past so close that he could see its white belly and its evil little eyes turned towards him. It was an enormous brute, not less than fifteen feet long.

For some minutes Biggles remained still while he recovered his strength, and then he started clambering over the rock - which turned out to be a large one - towards the beach. Seals, alarmed by his presence, uttered harsh barks of alarm and plunged into the sea as he approached, and gulls wheeled about uttering discordant cries of protest. Luckily, the rocks were jumbled together so closely that he was able to jump to the next one without great difficulty. However, there was a deep channel between this rock and the beach and he saw that he would be forced to enter the water again. He hesitated for a moment, but of the dreaded triangular fin he saw no sign, so he plunged in. He had to swim a few strokes but his objective was not far away, and almost before he was aware that he had reached it, he was dashing through a cloud of spray of his own making up the firm, sandy beach to the softer sand beyond. Then, and not before, did he stop to look behind him.

Panting, Biggles sank down on the dry sand. He took out his cigarette case automatically, but finding its contents wet, returned it to his pocket. His matches, he noted ruefully, were also soaked. He realised that he was stiff with cold, so with the objective of restoring his circulation by the only means possible, he got up and set off at a jog-trot along the high water mark. Reaching the end of the beach, he headed for a considerable chaos of rocks, which formed a little promontory, hoping to find shelter where he could take a breather. Finding no suitable crevice or cave amongst the rocks, he surmounted them, and the next stretch of coast was revealed. What he saw caused an involuntary exclamation of surprise to escape his lips.

Before him stretched a small cove. Pieces of aircraft were spread over the far end of the beach. The fuselage of the Messerschmitt 110 lay on the sand with its nose, cocked up at an odd angle, resting on some rocks. One wing appeared to have been torn off completely, and the other was crumpled. It was plain to see what had happened. The pilot of the Messerschmitt 110 that had collided with Biggles' Hurricane, and which Biggles had last seen gliding down towards the island, had attempted a landing on the beach. The wheel-tracks in the sand told the story. The pilot had tried to get the machine down onto a narrow strip of beach that was really too small for such a purpose. One of the wheels had gone into a slight dip, with the result that the machine had swung round. A wing had struck the sand, and it had cartwheeled. Only by some miracle had the wreckage not burst into flames.

Now that the battle was over Biggles put his profession as pilot before nationality - a not uncommon thing with airman - and the idea of leaving his enemies to perish in the wreckage filled him with a repugnance that was not to be tolerated. Strange though it may seem his concern as now for the crew of the Messerschmitt. How badly had they been hurt? Biggles was now desperately anxious to get to the crash as quickly as possible. The remains of a plane have been known to take fire long after it has crashed. When there is petrol about the slightest movement of the airframe, causing the magneto to click one final spark, can do it. Knowing this, Biggles made flat out for the crash. As he got closer he saw there was no sign of movement near the wreck except for a flock of sea birds that wheeled and swooped with a good deal of noise over something that lay on the beach. Biggles had a shrewd suspicion as to what the object was, and he slowed his pace as he approached it. It was the body of a man, a tall, fair-haired, well-built fellow in his twenties. He had obviously been thrown clear in the crash, but his head was twisted under him at a ghastly angle. Biggles saw at a glance that the German airman was beyond help, so he did not stop, but went straight on to the shattered fuselage of the Messerschmitt 110.

There seemed to be an unreal hush broken only by a soft drip-drip-drip, as liquid escaped from radiator, tank or a fractured petrol lead. The pilot's cockpit was empty but the gunner was still in his seat, in a crumpled position. The violence of the crash had torn his safety belt out by the roots, and he had obviously been struck severely on the head when the fuselage buckled. He was unconscious if not dead. Biggles tried to pull him out, only to discover - not for the first time - that to pick up an unconscious body is not the simple job some people may suppose. It is far more difficult than picking up a man who is only pretending to be unconscious. Luckily, the man, although apparently tall, was not heavily built. In sheer desperation Biggles seized him under the armpits and somehow - he had no clear recollection of how it was done - got him clear of the cockpit and dragged him to a spot some distance away, clear of fire should it break out.

For the first time Biggles had an opportunity to look at the face of the man he had rescued. It was the face of the last man he expected to see.

"Suffering crocodiles!" he breathed, sitting back on his heels. "Von Stalhein, of all people!"

The German seemed to be in a bad way. His face was grey under his tan, and there was a huge black bruise on his forehead, but no actual wound. The right shoulder of his tunic was torn, and from the way the arm dangled at an odd angle, Biggles suspected that the bone was broken. There was nothing that he could do about that. There was also an ugly wound in the upper part of von Stalhein's left leg, and he had clearly lost a good deal of blood. From the position of the bullet hole Biggles thought the leg wound was more serious than a mere flesh wound, so without messing about he ripped a sleeve out of his shirt to make a bandage, and made as good a job as was possible in the circumstances. The task finished, he felt for his cigarette case. The cigarettes were, of course, still soaking wet, so very carefully he laid them out on a rock to dry.

Biggles sat down to consider his next move. His eyes fell on the body of the enemy pilot and he saw with disgust that the sea birds had returned to it. They had settled on it and were tearing at it with their beaks. They were no ordinary gulls, but large buff-coloured birds with eagle-like beaks and black curved claws. He realised that they must be skuas, the so-called "vultures of the sea". Uneasily, he recalled an old sailor telling him of once seeing a flock of skuas attack a wounded seal, pulling great strips of blubber from its still-living body. He regarded the birds with brooding eyes for a moment. He could not bear to think of leaving the body of a fellow pilot lying there, a prey to the birds and any other vermin that might come along, but he had no implement with which to dig a grave. He could think of only one method of disposing of it. After all, many good airmen, including some of his best friends, had gone out that way, he reflected.

He stood up and walked over the body. At his approach the birds rose into the air but he saw with revulsion that they had been busy tearing at the face and eyes. He dragged the body across the trail unit of the Messerschmitt, and then he went through von Stalhein's pockets, looking for matches or a petrol lighter. He also took the precaution of removing a Mauser revolver from the holster which von Stalhein wore on his hip. All he found in von Stalhein's pockets was a scrap of paper which appeared to be an old bill from a tailor in Berlin, a gold cigarette case, a petrol lighter, and the long cigarette holder which von Stalhein customarily used - broken into two pieces. Using the petrol lighter, Biggles lit the scrap of paper and dropped it by a leaking petrol lead. Fire took hold, spreading rapidly. In a moment the remains of the aircraft were wrapped in leaping flames. He backed away quickly, for cartridges were exploding, flinging bullets in all directions.

Without a fire Biggles knew he was running the risk of getting double pneumonia by sitting in soaking wet clothes all night, so he collected an armful of dry grass from the dunes behind the beach and attempted to start a blaze with some driftwood, of which a plentiful supply lay scattered about. The driftwood was damp, and burnt only reluctantly, so even though Biggles crouched over the fire as near as he could get without actually burning himself his teeth still chattered with the cold. On the occasions when the sun broke through the clouds there seemed to be no strength in it and a chill wind had sprung up from the south which felt as if it had come straight off the Antarctic icecap. Biggles reflected gloomily that it probably had.

He was thirsty and he would have liked to go in search of fresh water, or at least a more sheltered spot away from the wind, but he noticed that the skuas - which had fled when the Messerschmitt burst into flames - had returned to the vicinity. They scarcely moved their wings as they hung effortlessly in the wind, frequently calling out to each other with harsh cries. They reminded him unpleasantly of the vultures that he had seen so often in Africa, perched in a tree waiting for a stricken beast to die. He could not leave a helpless man to the mercies of the birds, and it was out of the question to try to move von Stalhein. Quite apart from the obvious difficulties in lifting a heavy unconscious body, Biggles realised that the German might easily have internal injuries that would be aggravated by any attempt to move him. A couple of hours passed but to his annoyance Biggles' clothes still remained damp and worse, his cigarettes showed no signs of having dried out sufficiently for him to smoke them. Meanwhile, he kept a wary eye on von Stalhein.

On the cinema screen, from the way men recover from a blow on the head in a matter of seconds, and then resume a fight, or whatever they are doing, as if nothing had happened, it might be supposed that to be knocked unconscious is a trivial affair. In actual fact it is nothing of the sort. How long it takes a man to recover depends of course on the force of the blow, where it strikes, and any protection the person struck may have on his head at the time. Which explains why policeman were, and sometimes still are, issued with helmets. But as a general rule, if a person has really been knocked out by a hard crack on the skull it is some time before he fully recovers consciousness. Consequently, Biggles was not particularly surprised that the sun was well past its zenith before von Stalhein showed signs of returning consciousness. His eyelids fluttered. They did this several times. Then his eyes opened. For two or three minutes they stared vacantly at the sky. Then they seemed to clear. He raised himself up on his left elbow, looked about him and of course saw Biggles. A shadow of amazement swept across his face. Then he made as if to move his right hand towards his empty holster. He seemed astonished that his hand refused to obey his command, for he stared at it stupidly for a moment. Then, his face twisted with pain and surprise, he looked up at Biggles.

"Naughty," chided Biggles, holding up the gun he had taken from von Stalhein earlier.

"I should lie still for a bit if I were you, von Stalhein," Biggles continued dispassionately. "You've had a nasty crack on the head, and a bullet-hole in your leg has let a lot of the pink juice out. I fancy your arm is broken, too."

A few minutes passed in uncomfortable silence, and then von Stalhein sat up - carefully - and propped himself against the rock on which Biggles had set out his cigarettes to dry. His blue eyes moved slowly from Biggles to the rough bandage that had been bound around his leg, to the burnt-out wreck of the Messerschmitt - from which wisps of smoke still coiled upward into the sky - then back to Biggles. A variety of expressions chased each other in turn across his usually immobile features: understanding, impotent fury, and finally, wonder.

"Where's Meyer?" he said abruptly.

"Meyer?" repeated Biggles, frowning. Then, understanding to whom von Stalhein was referring, he nodded towards the charred remains of the aircraft.

"Meyer didn't make it. Pity. He could really fly. But you knew that, that's why you chose him as your pilot."

"Obviously," replied von Stalhein, drily.

"Have you got any cigarettes on you?" asked Biggles. "I had to swim to this island; and mine are soaking wet."

Von Stalhein felt awkwardly in his pockets with his left hand, and produced his cigarette case. He struggled to open it with one hand, and then with a mutter of annoyance passed it to Biggles. Biggles opened it and saw there were three cigarettes in it. Biggles lit two and gave one to von Stalhein, remarking, "You've lost your cigarette holder."

A more fantastic tableau would be hard to imagine, and von Stalhein evidently realised it, for a peculiar smile crept over his face.

"What strange people you English are," he murmured.

He drew thoughtfully on the end of his cigarette, and continued, "What is going to be the end of this?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. The end of us, probably. We're miles from the mainland and no one knows we're here."

"Usually you have a card up your sleeve."

"On this occasion my cards are all on the table."

"You might make a raft out of some of this driftwood, I suppose."

"I might," agreed Biggles. "But have you ever tried to make a raft? I did once. I know it sounds easy in books, but don't you believe it. Anyway, quite apart from that, I don't fancy rafting about on a shark-infested sea. A liner wouldn't be too big for me after what I've seen today."

Silence fell. Biggles finished his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground. Von Stalhein leaned back against the rock watching him, as impassive as ever, although he must have been in a great deal of pain.

Biggles looked at the German curiously.

"Tell me this, von Stalhein," he requested. "You were once a soldier; an officer in the Imperial Army. How could a man of your taste and education bear to associate with an odious specimen like Schultz?"

Von Stalhein started. He glared at Biggles. A pale pink flush stained his colourless cheeks and his lips pressed themselves together in a straight line.

"Let's not get on to politics," he replied icily.

Biggles shrugged. "Okay, have it your own way. But if you go on flying with carrion crows you'll become one."

Further conversation was interrupted by the sound of an aero engine, a single engine, ever increasing in volume. For a moment Biggles' heart leaped with hope, but then he recognised the sound as the deep growl of a Daimler-Benz engine. A solitary Messerschmitt 109 appeared, picking its way through the cloud cover. It came low and circled over the beach, twice. Then the aircraft zoomed, turned, and stood away to the west, towards the coast. Biggles looked at von Stalhein with raised eyebrows.

"Perhaps my people will send a boat to pick us up," suggested von Stalhein.

"How fortunate for you if they do," replied Biggles drily.

Von Stalhein made no response. He lay back on the sand, and closed his eyes. Biggles threw another piece of driftwood on the fire and huddled closer to it, smoking the last of von Stalhein's cigarettes and wondering what had happened to Algy and Bertie. He bore von Stalhein no particular malice for his predicament. It had been a smart piece of work to bait a trap for Biggles with the blue-nosed Messerschmitt 109, and no more than Biggles would have done had the position been reversed. It was the weather conditions that really worried Biggles, for a dark indigo ridge was rising with incredible speed above the southern horizon, almost as if an unseen hand was drawing a giant curtain across the sky. The deep incessant boom of heavy waves pounding on the beach told its own story. The wind seemed, if it were possible, to be getting colder. The skuas had vanished. Away to the south, lightning was now starting to flash incessantly and the wind was coming in gusts of increasing force. Great masses of black cloud were racing overhead, completely blotting out the fading light of the setting sun. Biggles saw that it was imperative to find some shelter from the coming storm. He shook von Stalhein by the shoulder. The German did not respond.

"Come on, von Stalhein," he shouted. "We've got to get out of this."

Von Stalhein groaned but did not move, and Biggles saw that he had an unconscious man on his hands. In sheer desperation he seized him by the collar and started to drag him up the beach. In that instance the storm struck with incredible rapidity and severity. Biggles was nearly swept off his feet by a shrieking blast of wind that filled the air with salt spray. Then it started to rain, driving, slashing, icy rain mixed with hail that whipped like a thousand canes. Biggles had never experienced anything like it, even in the tropics. The rain blotted out everything. Visibility became a memory. It no longer existed. The blinding flashes of lightning did more harm than good. When they occurred they merely dazzled, leaving the darkness more intense than before. Thunder boomed, rolled and crashed. What with the thunder and the rain the noise was deafening.

The sea was a succession of giant combers, their tops torn into spray. The waves, rearing high into the air, flung themselves towards the place where Biggles stood. The whole beach seemed to shake under the impact of the rollers, and finding it difficult to remain on his feet, he dropped to his hands and knees and braced himself to prevent himself from being blown away. Then a mighty comber broke and raced up to the spot where he knelt, so that the foam surged right up the beach. The world had become a nightmare of water, a deluge of fresh water that descended in a never-ending stream from above, and a flood of salt water that swirled about him, and threatened to suck him down the beach into the raging sea.

It did not occur to Biggles to leave von Stalhein, so again he seized the German by the collar and began dragging him, blindly, away from the sea towards the higher ground. The waves followed. The beach had become a place of swirling foam as big seas crashed in and raced out again.

Somehow, Biggles found a shallow depression in the dunes, amongst some sea grass which had been blown completely flat by the wind. There he collapsed, next to von Stalhein's limp body. The hail ended like a tap turned off, although it continued to rain, freezing sheets of water that hit the ground in a torrential downpour. Biggles lost count of time. It seemed to have been raining for hours. His dominant feeling was one of unreality.

That night went on Biggles' mental calendar as one of those never to be forgotten. He had passed nights in greater danger but never in such acute physical discomfort. It was the cold, the cold and the inky blackness. In these circumstances the night seemed eternal. The only things that really mattered any more were warmth and daylight.

Towards dawn the rain ceased, and with almost the same remarkable suddenness with which it had blow up, the storm began to abate. The first grey promise of another day came, and Biggles fell into a brief exhausted doze. When he woke, the sun had climbed well above the eastern horizon. The wind had dropped, the clouds had cleared and the sun was shining, but with little warmth.

For a moment or two Biggles could not recall what had happened. Then he saw von Stalhein, lying motionless beside him, and remembered everything. Stiffly, he sat up, but without his watch - which had been taken from him at Puerto Guano - he could not be sure of the exact time. It was about nine o'clock as near as he could judge from the position of the sun. The tide had ebbed, and Biggles could see that while the open sea still tossed and foamed, inside the little cove the breakers died and ended on the beach as mere angry wavelets.

The burnt remains of the Messerschmitt 110 had been completely broken up, and fragments of wreckage were scattered the whole length of the beach. Biggles could also see a dark mass that had been cast ashore at the far end of the beach. It appeared to be a small whale or porpoise that had been washed up by the storm. The skuas - which had reappeared - had discovered it and, as the manner of sea birds, were making a lot of noise, fighting and squabbling, as they made a meal of it.


	17. A trip to remember

**Chapter 17**

**A trip to remember**

Biggles turned his attention to von Stalhein. The German's face was ghastly in the pale morning light and he thought he was dead, but dropping to his hands and knees beside him, was relieved to hear faint but regular breathing. Biggles laid a hand on his forehead. Despite the bitter cold, he was obviously running a high temperature, presumably due to inflammation of his wound. As Biggles watched, he began to twitch restlessly and murmur incoherently in his own language. There was nothing that Biggles could do for von Stalhein, so he began trying to generate some warmth in his chilled body. He was painfully conscious that he was stiff in every limb, his hands and feet were numb almost to insensibility, and he was desperately hungry. If there had been any means of lighting a fire he would not have hesitated to cut some flesh from the stranded whale and cook it. But, famished though he was, he drew the line at raw whale meat.

The day wore drearily on. Although the clouds had cleared away completely a cold breeze continued to blow from the south, and Biggles shivered in his sodden clothes. Von Stalhein remained semi-conscious, and Biggles almost envied him his oblivion to the miseries that Biggles was suffering. For once Biggles was utterly sick at heart. Never in all his adventures, he thought, had he been in such a plight. He was stranded on an unknown island, without food, without weapons - for he had lost von Stalhein's Mauser revolver in the chaos of the previous night - and with the added responsibility of an injured, probably dying, man, on his hands. He had no way of knowing whether Algy and Bertie were alive or dead. Even if they were alive they would never know what had become of him, he reflected miserably.

His melancholy reverie was interrupted by the faint drone of approaching aero-engines. Biggles leap to his feet and stood staring at the sky, wondering whether it was a formation of machines or a multi-engined machine. A single machine appeared, cruising in wide circles at about five thousand feet. It came lower, an object of intense interest to Biggles.

It was a twin-engined flying-boat.

"Ginger, by thunder!" he exclaimed. He began waving furiously.

The pilot of the flying-boat evidently recognised Biggles, for the machine made a quick turn, the engine was throttled back, and it began gliding down towards the water with the plain intention of landing. Biggles watched its floats cut twin streaks of white foam across the sullen green water. He was so intent on the flying-boat that he failed to notice another arrival on the scene until a voice spoke quietly behind him.

"You're wasting time, Bigglesworth," said von Stalhein softly.

Biggles turned to stare at him. As was to be expected, the German looked terribly ill. His eyes glittered feverishly in a face as pale and gaunt as death.

"Goodbye, Bigglesworth, and good luck. You'll need all of your usual infernal luck to get out of this," he observed dispassionately.

"What'd you mean?" Biggles asked.

Wordlessly, von Stalhein pointed to a vessel that was nosing its way into the cove. It was a submarine. There were several men on deck staring towards the shore. There was no need to question its nationality, for on the side of the conning tower was painted, in white, the single letter U. Below it was the number 317.

The pilot of the flying-boat had evidently seen the U-boat, too, for the machine surged towards the beach, its engines ticking over. Algy and Bertie appeared at the cabin door, beckoning furiously.

Biggles plunged into the water, and finding that he could stand on what seemed to be a hard, sandy bottom, made for the machine as fast as possible. The journey was mostly a blur of spray, but he had to swim the last little way. Willing hands dragged him in. Biggles fell flat and lay there with water pouring off him to make puddles on the floor. Coughing up salt water that he had swallowed in the last mad rush, Biggles heard the engines roar, and an instant later vibration told him they were moving. A machine gun chattered. Then a small calibre automatic cannon opened up. The aircraft was rocking through a hail of tracer shells and machine-gun bullets. Ginger was taking evading action, and taking it desperately, as far as it was possible with such a big machine, but it was hit, not once but several times. Biggles could hear metal ripping through wood and fabric. He clawed his way to the cockpit and collapsed into the co-pilot's seat next to Ginger. Still pursued by fire the aircraft was up to five hundred feet, racing eastward over the sea with the island slipping astern. The shooting died away as the flying-boat got out of range.

Biggles caught Ginger's eye. "I thought you were on the sick list," he murmured weakly.

"So I was, but I got well," grinned Ginger.

At this junction Algy burst into the cockpit. "Those pirates have hit us," he shouted. "The main tank has been holed. It's squirting like a soda-water syphon. Ginger, see if you can do anything about it."

"I'll take over," stated Biggles.

"No you won't," said Algy, crisply, taking the seat vacated by Ginger.

"This is pretty close to insubordination," challenged Biggles.

Algy shook his head. "Take a look at yourself," he advised. "You look like a slice of death warmed up."

Biggles looked at his hands. They were trembling, and blood from a cut on his forearm had mingled with the water still dripping from his hair and clothes so that it formed little pink rivulets running down the wrist. The arm was so numb that he felt no pain from the cut. In fact, he could hard ly feel any sensation in the arm at all.

"Have it your way," he conceded wearily. "Keep on for Port Stanley; we won't have a hope if that U-boat catches us on the water."

"You're all in, Biggles. What happened to you after you went chasing off after that blue-nosed Messerschmitt?" asked Algy.

"Everything that can happen to a fellow, apart from being attacked by vampire bats," replied Biggles, with a wan smile. He continued through chattering teeth. "I downed the Messerschmitt 109, but I got the worst of a spot of argument with a Messerschmitt 110 that I didn't see coming. Then I fell into the sea. I've been chased by a shark, and swamped by a hurricane. I've had nothing to eat, no sleep, and been constantly wet for what seems like weeks. Plus I've had a perfectly lovely time playing at Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday with Erich von Stalhein. He had the same idea that I did. He knew I'd go for his machine, so he set a nice little trap for me. We wound up sharing the same island."

"So that other fellow I saw was von Stalhein! I wondered what that U-boat was up to," exclaimed Algy. "Were you just going to leave him there?"

"Yes. We can hardly clutter ourselves up with prisoners."

"Nazi policy would have been to bump him off, and so remove all risk of his causing further mischief," murmured Algy reflectively.

"Are you suggesting that we arrange our code of behaviour by what a Nazi would do?" inquired Biggles coldly. "Anyway, von Stalhein won't be troubling us again; he's got broken bones and a nasty leg wound. If he survives, he'll walk with a limp for the rest of his life."

Algy started to say something scathing about wounded wild beasts being the most dangerous, but before he finished the sentence, Ginger returned to report that he had made a temporary repair to the leak in the petrol tank. The cabin still reeked of petrol, but any loose spirit had run out through the holes in the floor.

"Holes in the floor!" echoed Algy. "Biggles, you'd better go and have a look into that. Ginger, get Biggles a blanket from the locker, will you?"

Ginger fetched a blanket, which Biggles wrapped gratefully around himself. Then he proceeded with his inspection of the aircraft. He saw that it had suffered considerably. It was miraculous that no-one had been hurt, apart from minor bruises and scratches. There were five holes in the hull below the waterline, but Bertie and Ginger were fairly confident that they would be able to plug them. Splinters of wood and broken glass lay about. Both wings were lacerated. These things did not worry Biggles unduly, for the modern military aircraft is built to withstand punishment. The main thing was, the engines were still running, and while they continued to do so the machine would probably remain airborne. Nevertheless, he was aware that they were faced with a gruelling 500 mile flight back to Port Stanley, with the very real risk of engine failure and its inevitable consequences. There was no possibility of calling up assistance, for the radio was a shell-shattered wreck, damaged beyond repair.

At this point Algy shouted for Biggles from the cockpit. Biggles hurried to join him. Algy pointed to a splutter of oil spots on the windscreen, and then to the dials on the instrument panel. A falling oil pressure gauge and a certain roughness in one of the engines, slight as yet, told their own story. The starboard motor was not getting its proper lubricant and was beginning to complain. The oil tank that fed it must have been holed by a bullet or perhaps a shell splinter. At all events, it wasn't functioning. The other was all right.

The starboard engine began to vibrate, as a result of heating up, and Algy switched it off. He looked at Biggles. "We can call up the people at Port Stanley on the radio and tell them we're on the way," he said calmly.

Biggles shook his head. "No use. The transmitter looks like a cat's breakfast."

Algy frowned. "Well, there's nothing more we can do." He added, "You should get something to eat."

Ginger and Bertie appeared at this stage to report that the holes in the hull had been plugged as best as was possible in the circumstances, so Biggles went into the cabin with them to repeat his story for their benefit. He concluded by saying, "For the love of Mike, have you got any food? I need some nourishment. Biscuits will do."

Biscuits and bully beef were produced and Biggles made a satisfying, of not very palatable, long-delayed meal. As he ate, the flying-boat continued to roar on its eastward course across a sullen waste of water. Nothing was seen. Absolutely nothing. Not a ship, not even a solitary whale. Ginger, aware that they were still hundreds of miles from Port Stanley, regarded the featureless expanse below with rising apprehension. He was uncomfortably aware that they were flying on one engine, over some of the loneliest waters on the globe. From his manner Biggles might have been unaware of this."

"You seem to be taking all this pretty lightly," remarked Ginger, looking hard at Biggles.

Biggles shrugged. "Moaning won't get us anywhere, will it?" he pointed out, adding, "The machine isn't heavily loaded; we should be able to hold our height with one engine on full throttle."

"If we go down, we've still got the inflatable dinghy," put in Bertie cheerfully. "We can float about in that; three men in a boat and all that sort of thing."

Despite himself, Biggles smiled. "Have you had a look at the dinghy lately?" he asked.

"Oh, I say, it\rquote s got a beastly big hole in it,\rdblquote muttered Bertie, somewhat crestfallen. "How is that all my little schemes come unstick?" he added plaintively.

Biggles continued, "I'm still waiting to hear your end of the story."

Bertie told him what had happened. In the dog fight Algy had shot down one Messerschmitt in flames and driven another one into the ground. Bertie had destroyed at least one other - the one that he had shot off Biggles' tail. Then they had made the mistake of both attacking the same machine, which had been badly damaged and was last seen gliding down towards the Puerto Guano landing strip. This had enabled at least one of the enemy machines to make its escape.

In the course of the combat both their machines had been badly shot about but they had managed to get back to Vicuna. Bertie's undercarriage was jammed; he had made a successful pancake landing but his machine was unlikely to ever fly again. Algy's engine had burst into flames a few miles from Vicuna, and he had been forced to bail out. After walking, as Bertie described it, "for miles and miles and miles", Algy had been lucky enough to get a lift in donkey cart to his destination before the storm hit. Ginger had turned up mid-morning in the flying-boat, and the three of them had started a search for Biggles. Seeing fragments of a crashed aircraft on the island, they had come lower with the intention of landing to investigate. They had recognised Biggles and assumed that the wreckage was that of his Hurricane.

Biggles listened to this recital without speaking. When it was finished, all he said, "Good show. The enemy are down to one machine. We seem to have got through pretty well up to this point with no casualties. It's a pity we' ve lost all of our machines but we can't expect to have things all our own way."

His meal finished, Biggles returned to the cockpit. Algy looked up at him and smiled confidently. "We've got a tail wind behind us; we're all set for home and we ought to be there about four o'lock," he declared. "Try to get some rest."

"All right," agreed Biggles. "Wake me if anything exciting happens." He settled down next to Algy and in a minute he was asleep.

He hardly seemed to have closed his eyes when Ginger was gently shaking his shoulder. Rather awkwardly, he handed Biggles a folded piece of paper. "I'm sorry, Biggles; I forgot all about this. It's an urgent signal from Air Commodore Raymond. It came in just as I was leaving Port Stanley."

"Read it, Ginger," requested Biggles.

Ginger's eyes widened with surprise as he read:

U-317 sighted 270 nautical miles south-west of Rio Gallegos by H.M.S. Scud. Stop. Believed to be heading north to Puerto Guano to collect diamonds. Stop. U-317 responsible for sinking 11 British merchant ships and the liner Arthurnia in the South Pacific. Stop. Destruction of U-317 is a priority. Stop. Signed Raymond.

"Destruction of the U-317 is a priority, is it?" scoffed Algy. "How are we going to destroy that U-boat with this old tub? It jolly nearly destroyed us."

"I thought we had only one thing to do - smash up the diamond mine. Now there are two things. At the rate we're going there will soon be three," said Ginger bitterly.

"That's enough," cut in Biggles. "Raymond has given us an order. It's up to us to carry it out."

There was no further conversation. The others knew Biggles too well to comment further on the signal from Raymond at that moment. As for Biggles, he was puzzled and distressed. He could not understand it. He had never let the Air Commodore down. The Air Commodore had never let him down. So why had he given an order that he must have known was virtually impossible for Biggles to carry out? Raymond would surely know that it would take an amazing fluke of luck for a Sea Hurricane, capable of carrying only two 250 pound bombs, to destroy a U-boat. In any event, Biggles no longer had any Sea Hurricanes at his disposal. He bit his lip with vexation.

He hardly noticed the flying-boat continuing to roar its trackless way across the lonely sea. The Argentinian coast had long been left behind, and the rocky shores of the Falklands were still over fifty miles ahead. Then something alerted his pilot's instincts. The port engine was failing, very slowly, but definitely. Biggles' eyes flew the engine-revolution indicator, and he caught his breath when he saw its needle was starting to fall back. The machine started to lose altitude.

Biggles turned to Algy. "Okay, you can let me have her now," he ordered. "You go and have another look at those patches in the hull. See if there's anything more that you can do. Send Ginger up here to sit with me."

"Ginger, keep your eyes out for anything that looks like smoke," he requested when Ginger slipped into the seat beside him. "Your eyes are sharper than mine."

Biggles was now flying with one eye on the rev counter and the other on the eastern horizon - so to speak.

Ten minutes later a cry from Ginger caused Biggles to alter course towards a faint smudge of smoke. The machine was now down to three thousand feet, but a rakish craft could be seen hull down just over the horizon.

"That looks like a destroyer, dead ahead," Ginger asserted.

A strange smile crept over Biggles' face. "It's a destroyer all right. Thank God for the navy. The boys in blue are always there when you need them."

"She's seen us," exclaimed Ginger joyfully. "She's heading in our direction. We should just about reach her."

Ginger's prophecy was not far out. No sooner was the destroyer well in sight when the port motor choked and after a few backfires cut out dead. By that time Biggles had pushed the control column forward, putting the aircraft into a shallow glide towards the water. He landed a couple of miles short of the destroyer. It was an anxious moment, but nothing happened except water began trickling in through some of the patches in the hull. Ten minutes later the destroyer was bearing down on them at full speed, two ostrich-plumes of spray leaping up from the knife-like bow. While still a hundred yards away it swung hard over and then churned up a whirlpool of spray as it went hard aback. Almost before it had stopped a small boat had dropped from the davits and was skimming towards them under the swift strokes of half a dozen pairs of oars; an officer sat in the stern. In five minutes the airmen were aboard her, talking to her commander on the deck.

"My name's Bigglesworth," announced Biggles without preamble. "I'm a Squadron Leader in the R.A.F. These are three of my officers. We've just come across from Argentina."

"Captain Sullivan of HMS _Scud_," returned the naval officer. "I know who you are. Port Stanley told me there was a British aircraft in the area. I'll let them know that we picked you up, and I'll put you ashore there as soon as I can."

"This is the _Scud?_" queried Biggles. "I understand that you bumped into the U-317 recently."

"That's correct," nodded Sullivan. "We came across her running on the surface yesterday. We fired a couple of 'mouldies' but she submerged and got away in some rough weather that blew up."

"We bumped into her, too," replied Biggles, quietly. "She got the best of the encounter but I hope one day to meet her again and put a different expression on her skipper's face."

The naval officer became brisk. "What do you want me to do about your machine?" he asked."

"We can't salvage her so you had better sink her," replied Biggles.

Sullivan gave the necessary orders. The destroyer got underway, leaving the flying boat rocking in its wake. A gun crashed and a shell burst near the derelict fuselage of the machine, looking strangely pathetic as it drifted alone on the water. Then several shots struck it, smashing the hull and causing it to settle slowly in the water.

Two hours later, without misadventure, the _Scud_ steamed slowly into Port Stanley. The airmen, washed, shaved, and refreshed, watched the landing-jetty creep nearer. Dusk was closing in but a number of figures could be seen standing on the end of the jetty and waving excitedly.

"Do you see what I see?" exclaimed Algy incredulously.

"I think so," replied Biggles, his face breaking into one of his rare grins of delight. "The rest of the squadron - Angus, Henry, Taffy, Ferocity, Tex and Tug. Raymond must have arranged to get them out here as soon as he received that signal that I asked you to send him, telling him that we'd found the diamond dump at Puerto Guano."

"The whole blessed gang, by Jove," murmured Bertie, polishing his eye-glass furiously. "Marvelous - absolutely marvelous."

As the destroyer was made fast they hurried briskly across the gangway and were welcomed by the other members of Number 666 (Fighter) Squadron with boisterous enthusiasm.

"Where's Henri Ducoste?" demanded Ginger, when the babble had abated.

"Losh, mon," said Angus, uneasily. "I dinna how to tell ye this, laddie."

"What Angus is trying to tell you, is that Henri's gone," said Henry quietly.

"Gone where - to another squadron?" inquired Ginger in puzzled tones.

Tug spoke. "Gone for a Burton," he said succinctly. "He went down in flames in a dog fight over Calais, last week." He added, viciously, "I got the Nazi swine who shot him down."

Tears that he could not keep back welled to Ginger's eyes. He sank down on a bollard and buried his face in his hands.

He heard Biggles asking Angus how the squadron had got to the Falklands. He heard Angus reply, "We flew out in five Beaufighters. We had some ferry pilots to help us; we've been in the air pretty well non-stop since we left England, taking turns at the stick."

"Beaufighters!" exclaimed Biggles. "They're just the ticket for this job!"

The voices receded as Biggles and Angus walked away, accompanied by the others.

Ginger looked up to find Algy's eyes fixed steadily on him. "Henri was Jeanette's brother. And he was my friend," he said simply.

Algy nodded understandingly. "This is war, not kindergarten," he said kindly. "A week ago it was Henri's bad luck. Tomorrow it may be me - or you. You know that. Henri knew what he was in for. At least he got a chance to hit back at the Nazis. He didn't bleat about it when his turn came. Neither, I hope, shall we."

He took Ginger's arm. "Come on, let's go up to the mess and have some dinner. By heavens, the fellows have arrived in the nick of time. Things are just starting to warm up."


	18. The last round

**Chapter 18**

**The last round**

Over an early dinner in the quarters assigned to them, the newly arrived members of the squadron were brought up to date on events. The meal over, Biggles tossed his napkin on the table, lit a cigarette, and addressed his officers.

"Well," he said. "You all know why we're here - to put the Boche diamond mine out of business, and to sink the U-317 if we can. We have five Beaufighters at our disposal. They have wing racks for two 1,000 pound bombs. That should be ample to do the job. Tomorrow we shall go over to the diamond mine, drive the Boche out, and make the place uninhabitable for some time to come. The best way to do that is to destroy the dam the Germans have made so they can get at the diamonds in the gravel of the riverbed. If we can succeed in doing that, the resulting flood should wash away the whole of the diggings."

He continued. "On the way to the diamond mine we shall look in at Puerto Guano. If we can catch the U-boat tied up at the jetty or in shallow water steaming out of the harbour, we have a good chance of sinking her. In deeper water, we'd need torpedoes or depth charges. I'm particularly anxious to sink her at the jetty if we can; the Argentinians will have nothing to shout about in terms of infringement of neutrality if they've got to explain how a German submarine came to be moored at an Argentinian naval facility. We'll go over high up - twenty thousand feet should do it - cut our engines and glide in towards Puerto Guano. If we see the U-boat, two Beaufighters will go down after it. Algy and Angus will pilot those machines, and Tug and Henry will fly with them as spare pilots and gunners. If they can't sink a submarine with four 1,000 pound bombs it deserves to get away. The other machines, led by me, will press on to the diamond mine."

"Do we go on with you after we've sunk the U-boat?" questioned Algy.

"I don't see much point if you don't have any bombs left," replied Biggles. "And I'm not expecting any substantial opposition as the Huns are down to one Messerschmitt 109 - unless they're in a position to call up reinforcements."

"You can't leave us out of the show," stated Tug.

"Very well," agreed Biggles. "The enemy have some anti-aircraft guns in place. They've lost their two senior officers, so the air defence may be disorganised but we can't count on that. You can concentrate on keeping their pom-pom guns busy while we knock over the diamond diggings."

He went on. "We have a fair idea of where the mine is - all we have to do is follow the Brizo Sur River up from Rio Gallegos. Ginger will come with me because he's flown over the ground before and he may recognise some landmarks. Bertie and Taffy will fly the other machines and Tex and Ferocity will fly with them. Our job will be to blow the dam up."

He glanced around. "Any questions?"

Ginger asked, "Are we going to make a dummy run over the dam?"

Biggles thought for a moment. "We shall have to," he said slowly. "We don't want to drown the Argentinian labourers if we can avoid it. We'll buzz the diggings, firing a few shots over their heads. That should persuade them to move off fairly sharpish."

"What's the next move after pranging the dam, sir?" asked Taffy.

"The main objective is the dam but any left-over bombs can be dumped on the enemy camp. We may as well shoot up their camp and airstrip while we're about it. But remember that we'll be at the limit of our range so we can't afford to mess around. When I give the signal everyone is to form in behind me and head home."

Biggles tapped the ash from his cigarette and looked around again. "Right, if that's all understood you had better get to bed early tonight," he concluded. "We'll leave at four am. I want to time our arrival at Puerto Guano for the hour after dawn."

"Why not before dawn, old boy?" inquired Bertie. "Isn't that the hour that has the reputation for being the best time to catch people napping?"

"We need enough daylight to see what we're doing," Biggles pointed out with gentle sarcasm.

"By Jove! Yes, I didn't think of that," confessed Bertie.

To Ginger, it seemed that he had been asleep for only a few minutes when he was awakened by the sudden bellow of an aero engine. A second, and then a third engine, joined it. He felt Algy prodding him. "Here, snap out of it," he said.

Ginger sat up. "What, again?" he moaned.

"Quit complaining. I always did hate the hour before dawn, ever since I was dragged out to fly before it was light in the old days in France - but I've been up for half an hour. Biggles said you could sleep for a bit longer."

"What about breakfast?"

"There'll be more time for that when we get back. There's coffee and biscuits in the mess. You'd better hurry, we leave the ground in five minutes."

Ginger scrambled out of bed and hastily pulled on his uniform. He gulped his coffee and ran out to the tarmac. Biggles was there, waiting, parachute slung over his shoulder. The rest of the squadron had already dispersed to their machines. It was still completely dark, and the stars twinkled clear and bright in a cloudless sky. A steady wind was blowing from the east, and the air was chilly.

"It's beastly cold," muttered Ginger, buffing his arms.

"You don't know the meaning of the word," bantered Biggles. "You should have been with me yesterday. This is a balmy tropical night by comparison."

Ginger looked at him with surprise. Biggles seemed to have recovered completely from what he had been through on the island on which he had been marooned. His endurance, when circumstances demanded it, was still to Ginger a thing to wonder at. From his physical appearance one would not have suspected it. It could only be, thought Ginger vaguely, a matter of brain over brawn.

A few minutes later the Beaufighters were in the air. In loose formation, always climbing, they headed west. Having climbed to twenty thousand feet, they levelled out and roared on through an empty sky. The atmosphere, although dark, was crystal clear, and Ginger surveyed it with the methodical thoroughness that is the result of long experience. The distance from Port Stanley to where he guessed the diamond mine to be, so far as he could ascertain from the map, was at least seven hundred miles. He expected that the Beaufighters, even at the steady cruising speed at which they were flying, would reach Puerto Guano in not much more than two hours time, and be at the diamond mine an hour or so later. He knew that Biggles had judged their time in order to arrive at the coast as soon after dawn as the light would permit good visibility.

Whichever way he looked, Ginger could see nothing but water. The water was unmarked by the wake of a single ship. Ginger thought that very few ships would be seen in these lonely waters in normal times, and wondered to what extent the war was responsible for sweeping the sea clean of shipping. Moodily, he contemplated the sea below. The thought struck him that it was the fourth time that he had crossed that desolate stretch of water in the past forty-eight hours.

Dawn was breaking in an extravagant flood of pink and gold when the Argentinian coastline came into sight. The five Beaufighters continued to roar on towards the land that now entirely filled the horizon ahead.

Ginger glanced to one side. Algy's machine swam into view. His mouth was opening and shutting as though he was gasping for breath and Ginger realised with amusement that he was singing. He looked to the other side and saw Bertie, his monocle still in his eye. Bertie caught his eye and made a funny face. The remaining two Beaufighters trailed behind, too far away for him to see the pilots'. He wondered if Angus was wearing his old regimental glengarry. Ginger decided that he was, simply because he always did. Oh well, he mused, it takes all sorts to make a war.

His attention was returned to the business at hand with a jolt as Biggles put his machine into a dive, not too steep, but enough to send the speed indicator soaring. The roar of the engines faded to a purr.

Biggles spoke quietly through the inter-communication telephone. "We may not deal the enemy a mortal wound today, but let's hope it sets up a nasty irritation."

Ginger looked about him with renewed interest as Rio Gallegos came into view, across a wide bay, and then Puerto Guano, a little further up the wide mouth of the Brizo Sur River.

"By gosh! There's the sub!" cried Ginger suddenly. "She's there, on the surface, steaming out of the port! We've got her!"

Biggles said nothing. The need did not arise, for he could see clearly the object that had provoked Ginger's exclamations. It was the submarine - or a submarine; and there could only be one under-water craft in the region of Puerto Guano.

Biggles spoke to the others over the radio. "Algy, Angus; down you go. We may as well stay and watch the fun." He turned away in a wide circle as Algy and Angus forged past, steepening their dives.

The two Beaufighters went down like a thunderbolt towards the sinister grey cigar-shaped vessel. Down - down - down they roared, with Algy in the lead. Not until he was within a few hundred feet of the water did he begin to pull out, in line with the length of the submarine. Ginger could see the gun crew feverishly loading the heavy gun on the bows of the submarine. Algy's guns blazed. Tracer bullets streaked like sparks of white fire, and the blazing balls that marked the trajectory of cannon shells followed them to the target. Several men fell, and the survivors abandoned their weapon and bundled into the conning-tower. The top closed and the U-boat began to submerge.

By this time Algy was over it. His bombs hurtled down, and the machine zoomed away swiftly. The U-boat had disappeared in a swirl of foam. Ginger saw a sheet of flame hurl a pillar of water high into the air, but well away from the spot where the U-boat had vanished beneath the water.

"A miss!" he muttered. "She's got away."

He spoke too soon. The other Beaufighter was sweeping in, low over the patch of swirling water that marked the place where the U-boat had submerged. Angus released his bombs and two great columns of smoke and spray shot upwards.

When the spray cleared the nose of the submarine, at right angles to the water and sliding down, was just disappearing. Ginger's heart beat a tattoo of excitement as he saw a tidal wave was leaping towards the shore and behind it a great flat patch of oil was spreading over the dark water. But for the evil looking oil stains there was nothing to show that, a minute or two before, a vessel had been there.

"What a show!" exclaimed Ginger triumphantly. "She must have been blown in halves."

"Short, but not very sweet," observed Biggles over the telephone. "Ah, well, that's war. That's what they've been handing out to unarmed merchant ships so they could hardly complain."

With a final glance at the wide patch of oil that marked the last resting-place of the U-boat, Biggles turned away, following the course of the Brizo Sur River. The other machines followed. Algy and Angus climbed up to join them.

The Beaufighters bored steadily west at cruising speed. Below, there was no sign of life or human habitation, apart from the occasional flock of sheep. A little to the north, the Brizo Sur lay like a silver ribbon across the brown of the pampas.

Presently Biggles spoke over the telephone again. "Do you recognise any land marks, Ginger?" he inquired.

Peering ahead, Ginger recognised a peak that rose like a blue tooth on the horizon. A yellowish puff of smoke rose from its summit at regular intervals. Looking down, he saw that the terrain had become rougher. "Yes," he replied. "Do you see that volcano? Head straight for it."

Biggles altered course a trifle to follow Ginger's instructions. Obediently, the other machines swung around to follow him.

Suddenly, the nose of the Beaufighter pointed down. Ginger did not have to look tw ice to see why. Below lay a silvery thread of water - a tributary of the Brizo Sur. Not far ahead it swelled into a larger body of water. A straight line indicated the dam wall.

Biggles spoke in the radio. "Tally-ho, boys! Tally-ho! There it is. Here we go! I'll have a shot at the dam. Bertie, Taffy - hang back and come in if I miss."

The Beaufighters roared down. Suddenly, short stabbing yellow flames appeared at several points and lines of white fire streamed upwards, but the shooting was only sporadic and came nowhere near the aircraft. Out of the corner of his eye Ginger saw Algy and Angus turn away from the formation and dive away towards the points where the flames had appeared.

Ginger's attention was fixed on the regular lines of trenches in the bed of the river below the dam and a couple of buildings that had been constructed near them. The ant-like figures of men could be seen scrambling out of the trenches and running out of the buildings. Biggles levelled out and flashed over the diggings, firing a short burst from his guns. The figures ran incontinently in different directions. Biggles circled to gain height and then, satisfied that most if not all of the Argentinian workers had fled the diggings, dived towards the dam. The aircraft seemed to jump an invisible object as its bombs hurtled downwards.

Ginger heard the roar of the explosion above the noise of the engines, he felt the machine surge upwards like a lift under its pressure, but for a moment he could see nothing owing to the cloud of spray that rose high in the air. Then, as it cleared, a cry of triumph broke from his lips.

"We've got it," he yelled exultantly.

The dam was no longer there. A twenty foot high wall of swirling foam was sweeping down the dry river bed. It toppled over as the pressure on its flanks was released, and spread itself out in a sea of tossing brown waves and coiling whirlpools.

The other Beaufighters were turning their attention to the nearby German camp and airstrip. The canvas hangars were in flames and there was no sign of the one remaining Messerschmitt 109. Ginger supposed that it had either not returned to the diamond mine, or that it had been destroyed on the ground. A pall of smoke was also rising from the camp buildings. The machines were diving through the smoke, their guns grunting. Men were running pell-mell for cover, some beating their jackets, which were alight, on the ground.

Ginger turned his eyes back to the site of the diamond diggings. The deluge had done even more damage than he had thought possible. In its first tremendous rush, it must have carried everything before it, for the river bed had been practically washed clean. Not a building was left standing. A quantity of planks and splintered wood had been scattered along the course of the flood. To add to the ruin, in places the water had evidently undermined the river banks, the sudden erosion causing landslides of masses of dirt and shingle.

Biggles called his machines together. "It's all buttoned up!" he shouted into the radio. "Time to go home."

The other Beaufighters converged on him at once and took up formation. Biggles climbed for height and set a course straight for Port Stanley. He proceeded on the return journey at what was, comparatively speaking, a leisurely pace. There was no need to work the engines hard when there was no immediate hurry. They reached the coast without incident and satisfied that all was well, Ginger relaxed and settled himself in his seat. Two hours later, with Port Stanley in view, Biggles gave the order for independent landing and one by one the Beaufighters glided down, in time for a late lunch.

That, really, is the end of the story. There is little more to tell beyond one or two details about which the reader may be curious. Within the week 666 Squadron was back at Rawlham, undertaking its regular duties. Biggles reported to Air Commodore Raymond of the Air Ministry, who congratulated him and his officers on the successful outcome of the mission. The Air Commodore also told him that arrangements were being made for compensation to be paid to the British & Imperial Pastoral Company for the loss of their Dragon and to the family of the Argentinian mechanic, Pedro, who had been killed at Vicuna. The terms of the charter of the Gosling that had been shot down governed the position with regard to its American owners.

"I hope there won't be any diplomatic repercussions," commented Biggles when he had finished his report. " The Argentines must be sore at losing so many of their machines. Their own fault, of course, for letting them get mixed up in a Nazi scheme, but they may not see it that way."

Raymond looked puzzled. "Don't you read the newspapers?"

"When I have time," replied Biggles.

"Then you should know what's going on."

"Why don't you tell me, sir, to save time?" suggested Biggles.

"On the same day that you destroyed the diamond mine, a pro-Nazi plot was uncovered in Argentina. Several influential people have gone to prison over it, and the Air Minister, Joachim del Vargos, has been forced to resign. Our Embassy in Buenos Aires hasn't heard a peep from the Argentinian government and they don't expect that they will."

"Well, that all seems entirely satisfactory," remarked Biggles, as he rose to his feet to make his departure. "Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye, Bigglesworth - until next time."

As he reached the door Biggles hesitated for a moment. "Do our agents in Argentina have any news of Erich von Stalhein?" he asked.

The Air Commodore looked up from some papers on his desk that he had started to examine.

"No; and as he has been a headache to us for years I hope that we don't hear anything more of the fellow," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

Biggles shrugged. "No reason in particular, just curious," he replied vaguely.


End file.
